


crown of thorns

by lostinadream (starblessed)



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 13:54:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14498430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/lostinadream





	1. PROLOUGE

 All fairytales start out the same way: a child born, and the promise of tomorrow in the air.

 That is how this story begins, too… but calling it a _fairytale_ might be a stretch. Plenty of fairytales start with someone being born.  Not many  kick off with someone dying.

 This tale begins with both.

* * *

 The end of an era came not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with a rush of blood and an agonized scream.

 It wasn’t as if no one knew the king was sick. No one knew he was as sick as he was.  The old man told no one, paid little attention, and  quietly  accepted  his time ruling the land of Telle might be coming to an end sooner than expected .

 It would have been nice if he mentioned that to the crown prince.

 He didn’t. He told no one.  So when the royal wire came down to the seaside palace of Cricadia that the king was dead, not a single person  was prepared .

The crown prince, his frantic pacing buoyed by screams echoing from behind a closed door, was not prepared  . The little prince bouncing in his governess’ lap was not prepared.  The woman who was now queen may have been the least prepared of all, considering she was having a baby at that very moment .

The newborn princess _ certainly  _ wasn’t prepared.

Needless to say, the news couldn’t have come at a worse time. Shouts echoed through the palace. Screams and wails resounded from every corner of the kingdom.  Trays fell; porcelain shattered; and in one  dimly  lit room, the new queen labored for hours with no idea what happened .

She had her own personal catastrophe to focus on.  Her baby — the little girl she carried in her body for the past nine months, nurturing, protecting, living for — was in trouble .

She knew this in the way all mothers know their children are in trouble. That twang of maternal instinct, which always begins as a whisper, had turned to a roar inside her skull. Each pulse of pain brought a new wave of terror with it, until it became overwhelming. There was no denying it. There was no escaping the certainty that settled upon her like an iron curtain.

Something was very wrong.

“One more push,” the wet nurse encouraged, gripping the queen’s knees. With a lung-shattering scream, the queen pushed.

Nothing. _Still,_ nothing. After hours of labor, there was nothing to show for it. She could feel her baby’s life writing and ebbing inside of her, growing fainter with every moment, and still _nothing_ —

“Once more! You’ve got to do this!”

The effort was its own unending agony. She'd been laboring for so long that she no longer had anything left. The fight was draining out of her like blood, drop by drop.  She was a flame smothered down to embers; a storm losing strength without land to fall on; a flower shriveling for lack of sunlight  . This was the queen's state, her exhaustion mounting with every agonizing moment. She was no longer sure she could fight; this battle had gone on long enough. It was taking all she could give and more, until she could only run on what could not  be felt  .  With her body giving out, the determined excess of her soul surged forth  --- this, more than anything else, reminded her that she could not give in . She had everything to lose, far more precious than her life. She had her baby girl.

She had to try. She had to fight. She would do anything to protect her child.

The queen grit her teeth, tensed every muscle, and _pushed._

The baby came free. Finally, _relief_ _._ For a handful of blissful seconds, she was able to drown in it.

That’s when silence settled over the room — silence so thick, so choking, that it filled the air like smog. The queen’s eyes shot open.

Her baby girl did not cry.

So ushered in a new reign for the kingdom of Telle — new life, born under the heavy shadow of death.

It may have been the end to one story, but it was the beginning of another.

This is how _my_ story begins.


	2. NORA: CHAPTER ONE

On the day I was born, canons thundered across the sea, and every citizen fell to their knees in jubilation.

My birth was the greatest cause to rejoice that the land of Telle had known in nearly a decade. When the crown prince entered the world, celebrations raged throughout our kingdom for weeks; and the subsequent birth of each of the queen’s sons were met with as much joy. But a princess was _something new._ At last, a daughter --- a child the king and queen made no secret of their longing for. When I was finally born, the kingdom was euphoric.

The long-awaited princess was christened Eléonora Madeleine Romaria of Telle; daughter of King Arvid and Queen Diana Celine. From my first breath, I have been the jewel of the kingdom --- the delight of my people, and the blessing of my parents. My very existence brings grace upon the land of Telle. I am the royal miracle, beloved by all.

At least, so they tell me.

I have never seen this adoration for myself --- not what is outside the palace gates, that is. When it comes to my parents, I could not be doted on enough. If I have grown up knowing one thing, it is that I am loved unequivocally. My parents prayed for me long enough, many long years spent knowing the importance of boys but hoping in their hearts their child might be a girl. With my arrival, my parents’ lives were complete. They no longer needed any more children. They had three strapping boys, and a rosy daughter. Life was as perfect as it could get for Telle’s rulers.

Isn’t that what a princess is supposed to be? _Perfect._

My name is Princess Eléonora of Telle --- but I prefer to be called Nora. It is short, simple, and straightforward; me too. I am plenty of things, but perfect is not one of them.

Living in a castle where everyone knows you, in a kingdom where icons of your family and face hang on every mantle, it is impossible to be overlooked. I have never had to introduce myself before. Everyone knows who the princess of Telle is… even perfect strangers.

One day, though --- and don’t ask me how I know this, because I’m just sure --- someone is going to ask who I am. I know exactly what I’ll tell them.

I am the thunder that rolled over the land on the night of my birth, the fireworks that exploded in the sky; I am the soft morning dew under bare feet, the drizzle of rain on outstretched arms; I am the silence just before a deafening thunderstorm.

I am many things, and _princess_ is the least of them all.

The one thing I cannot stand is being kept a secret; I do not want anything about me to be a mystery. If I had it my way, the princess of Telle would be completely transparent. Every citizen would know not just what she is, but who.

Perhaps them I would not be their treasured princess, a porcelain doll kept on the highest shelf of the land’s most lavish castle, but a real creature of flesh and blood. I am a so much more than a painted face within a frame. I’m an _entire person._

I am also the only one who seems capable of realizing that.

Of course, even if I had it my way --- even if I, and everyone else, could be completely straightforward --- life isn’t as considerate. We can never predict what waits around the corner, just what the next second might hold for us.

One moment, we could be flying, sailing through the air with arms outstretched, nothing to hold us back.

And the next… we can drop.

I hit the ground hard, shock ricocheting up my arms and through the hard caps of my knees. For a moment, there is no chance to register pain; then the world tilts back into alignment, and it hits me so hard that I groan. Scrambling back in the grass, I just manage to avoid the swing’s ricochet back; any slower, and I’d have been able to add a sore head to my list of battle scars.

Only once I scramble to my feet does the extent of the damage sink in. The front of my dress -- my pretty white dress with azure flowers embroidered along the hem, _brand new_ \-- is soiled with grass stains and dirt. My stockings have torn; blood seeps through the giant rip along my left knee, sending a thin trail of crimson down the white fabric. When I swipe my hands down my dress, I leave red stains, and that’s how I realize my palms are skinned as well.

 _Rats._ I was really starting to like this dress, too.

Mamma’s shrill screams are echoing in my head already, ringing out like sirens piercing a silent night. _Eléonora, how could you be so reckless? What on earth were you thinking? Don’t you realize you could have been hurt?_

Even clearer than her inevitable scolding is the panic on her face. I can imagine it so clearly; bearing witness to it a thousand times has burned it into my mind indelibly. From the first to the last time I’ve nearly scared my mother out of her wits, I’ve grown familiar with her terror. Her blue eyes go wide and round, her mouth purses up into a thin line, and all the color drains out of her face; it makes the grey at her temples look far more pronounced, and the lines on her face even more prominent. Mamma is not far past fifty, but when she worries, she seems far older than her years.

I’m ashamed to be the cause of… a good deal of that worry.

Not all, of course. Mamma has plenty more on her plate than dealing with a reckless teenage daughter. Not only does she have the three princes to command and an entire household to watch over, she is also Queen. This position comes with far more obligations than I could ever imagine being able to handle on my own… yet Mamma, in her typical way, manages with grace.

Nothing daunts Mamma. The only time I’ve seen her really, truly frightened… is whenever she thinks I might be hurt.

Maybe it says a lot about _me,_ then, that I still seize every opportunity to sneak off and find mischief. I know how much it worries my mother, and I know I’m only making her job harder… but don’t I have a life too? Aren’t I allowed to live it?

I just couldn’t help myself. The afternoon is warm and brilliant; sun beats down upon my bare head, turning tanning my skin and threading my cornsilk curls with gold. Like a curtain of honey drizzling onto a sweet cake, the world embraces the sun… and I want to do the same. Staying inside with ancient Monsieur Dupree, analyzing the reflexive forms of French verbs, would be a sin. Indoors, the only form of entertainment is watching his moustache bob up and down like a caterpillar. Outside, I can find real caterpillars, pick flowers, and run barefoot in the grass. I can do anything I want.

The damage to my dress, however, guarantees I’ll have to pay for my adventure. As soon as Mamma sees it, her heart will give out. She’s going to lock me in my room for a year.

_No running outside… no running ever. No going off alone. No getting into trouble. Only les verbes reflechis avec Monsieur Autochenille._

(My free spirit may know no bounds, but I _do_ pay attention in my lessons.)

Sure enough, as soon as I’ve brushed down my dress, I hear the heavy sound of boots clamping through the gardens; a loud voice calls my name. My sour thoughts may as well have summoned the guards. Alarm courses through me as I scramble back, desperate not to be caught. I can’t stand being dragged back to lessons; more than that, I cannot stomach Mamma’s disappointment.

Before I can second-guess myself, I dart down the path, away from the tree and swing. There is no question where I’m headed — into the mouth of the massive labyrinth that is the heart of the palace gardens. Though I’m guaranteed to regret it later — I’ve learned the hard way, more than once, that finding my way out is never as easy as rushing in — it is this or be dragged back home again. To lessons, to smothering safety.

If my choice is clear, the answer is crystal.

I run.

No one will follow me in. Few people other than the royal offspring dare to venture inside. Not my tutor, not the queen… certainly not the king. Even the palace guards — so frequently burdened with hunting down sulking princes or unruly princesses — are reluctant to venture inside the thick forest of shrubbery, endless turns, and dead ends. It is a _labyrinth_ for a reason. Going left at one crossroads takes you to a great silver fountain, topped with a statue of a satyr; making the same turn at an identical crossroads brings you to a bush cul-de-sac of nothing.

It’s different for me. My siblings and I know this labyrinth. We grew up here. Our childhoods were spent weaving through hedges, racing over bridges and around gazebos. It is our domain… _our kingdom._

The labyrinth stretches its jaws wide and swallows me up. I give myself to it entirely --- with a gasp of breath, then nothing. It likes sacrifices, you see. When we were children, my brothers and I set the rules of our own little world. The labyrinth is a living beast; inside, you are being watched every minute. Curses lurk around evers corner; monsters crouch low in the shadows, waiting to spring out and grab unsuspecting children. You’ve got to sacrifice something to find your way through: your time, your sense, your direction. I never know what I’m giving up (I’ve never been good at sacrifice in general) but somehow I’ve always paid the toll.

My bare feet fly over trod pathways which grow less and less maintained as the maze weaves on. The labyrinth is nothing like our maintained palace gardens; it is a wild place inside, with grass that stretches up to lick your calves and butterflies that dance shamelessly around your head. (It is not hard to see how we made it into our own world, once upon a time.)

It’s not long before the guards’ footsteps become a mere memory behind me. I feel a little bad for leaving them in the dust, but not as sorry as I would be if they managed to catch up. Instead of looking back, I charge forward through the winding paths ahead. Everything looks the same, long corridors of shrubbery stretching as far as the eye can see.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I know where I want to be. Somehow, that always works. It is like the labyrinth knows exactly where you’re headed, before you realize it yourself.

The satyr fountain will be the perfect place to hide out. It is the best spot in the entire maze — both tranquil and solitary. No one will find me there. I can linger for hours, basking in the sun and dipping bare toes in the silver waters. Dull as spending the afternoon in only my own company might be, at least I won’t have anyone fussing over me.

Don’t misunderstand me --- I am not a person who naturally enjoys being alone. Loneliness is an old friend. It is something I have learned to live with, the same way one learns to live with a constant backache, or the absence of a limb.

It is just so much _easier_ to be alone.

My fingertips trail along the walls, rustling leaves in my wake. A breeze whistles above my head; the sun continues to beam down, but inside the labyrinth it is cool. I am hidden from the world. The bushes are my sanctuary, and as long as I am within them, nothing outside can reach me. The air ripples around me, breathing in sync with each beat of my heart; I inhale heavy air, and exhale something stronger. The labyrinth’s energy is infectious. It makes me feel invincible.

I’ve just managed to reach the winding trail before the fountain grove when a strange sound reaches my ears. It is not the wind, not birdsong carried from the distant trees. It is an unmistakably _human_ voice.

“Hold on! Are you sure —“

I screech to a halt just before I bursting into view. I am not alone. Against all odds, another person — one whose voice is completely unfamiliar to me — is in the labyrinth too.

The idea of a stranger this far into the heart of the maze is absurd. No one could be here, unless guided by one of the royal family. No one has trailed me through; and I would recognize my brother’s’ voices anywhere. Which can only mean…

“Oh — _oh,_ Your Highness!”

_Good gods._

I draw back in horror, nearly falling over myself to get away without seeing anything. My eyes squeeze closed. When my brother’s smooth chuckle reaches my ears, I wish I could shut them as well.

“This is all because you doubted me, darling.” His companion lets out a breathy gasp. “You’ve given me incentive to prove myself.”

There is a long silence, then a wet noise, like a kiss being broken. “How’m I doing?”

The prince’s companion moans again. I pray for death.

It is impossible not to be revolted; in the same token, it’s impossible _not_ to look. Not that I want to… but if I don’t, I’ll never be able to return to this place. It will be ruined for me, like an inkstain across a gorgeous dress; I will forever be haunted by just what my favorite brother was doing in one of my favorite spots in the whole kingdom.

I close my eyes, summon the courage of armies, and peer around the corner.

Oh lords, _why_ did I look?

“Have some class, Nick,” I groan, pressing at my eyes with the palms of my hands. They’re burning. Some mental images will never leave my head; I know I’m going to be having nightmares about my brother in the garden tonight. If he leans back any further, they’ll both fall into the fountain. Then again, that might be the best thing for both of them ---

Nope. This is far more thought than I want to be devoting to my brother’s romances --- from the graphic details, to the way this one (like all the others) will inevitably blow up in his face afterwards. I turn on my heel and flee, before anything else can scar me.

There’s a lot to be said about handsome princes in high towers, seducing hapless maidens for their own pleasure before tossing them aside. That’s… not my brother. Prince Nicholas isn’t callous. He feels _too much,_ on too broad a scale. He loves deeply, grieves deeply, and empathizes with others’ pain like it’s his own. When we were children, I used to tease him for crying whenever we accidentally crushed bugs or decapitated flowers in our rowdy games.

Now, I understand him better. Nick’s heart is something to be admired.

Nick’s heart, however, is exclusively his. No one else can see inside of it — and this is where he runs into trouble. My brother has never been able to reconcile _his own feelings_ with the world around him. When he isn’t taking things seriously, he assumes no one else must be, either -- and Nick prefers to take very few things seriously. I suppose he is a hedonist, but I’d never say that to his face. Nick always means well… but if he had more insight into how other people feel, perhaps he’d realize how deeply he’s capable of affecting them. He’d leave far fewer broken hearts behind him.

Then again, it’s not my problem. I’m not responsible for what my brother does. As long as I don’t have to see (or hear) it, Nick’s antics don’t bother me.

With a few twists and turns, I escape the sounds still drifting from behind me. Again, I find myself aimless. Nowhere to go, and nowhere to be; my plans for squandering the hours by the fountain drift away like mirages on the wind, and I sigh. I will not be defeated. There are plenty of places to hide out in the maze, if only you can find them.

There are the canopies, of course… and if those aren’t an option, The Castle. (Not the _actual castle;_   when my brothers and I were small, a scale model was built near the far end of the labyrinth, a fitting throne for our kingdom.) It’s been ages since I’ve visited either place, but today seems like the perfect opportunity to do so. They’re also even more likely to be deserted. I cannot imagine any of my brother’s returning to our old playset. Most days, it seems like I am the only one who ever gives our childhoods more than a passing thought… probably because I’m still trapped in the neverending cycle of my own.

(Once upon a time, the royal children were close. The princess was not locked up in her ivory tower, and the princes were not aloof knights waging war against political dragons. The world was a wide, limitless place, and the children of Telle planned to explore it all.)

Phillip, Nick, and Alfred are all too big to remember they ever were small. Phillip spends all his time in cabinet meetings and conferences. The responsibilities of the crown prince weigh heavily upon him. My shy older brother grows more distant by the day, always cautious, always alone. Whatever burdens he carries, he will allow no one to shoulder them for him.

Nick is happy as a fish in his own little life. He has everything he could want: parties, revelry, and no shortage of admirers. Nick is handsome, and his natural amiability makes him irresistible. It is impossible not to love him. The only person who does not admire Nick, it seems, is our mother --- she has always thought him foolish. Nick is not close with anyone -- not even me, for all we confided in each other years ago -- but if he feels emotionally neglected, he hides it behind a smile.

As for Alfred… well, no one knows what to make of him. Alfred has always been his own best friend; it doesn’t help that now, even the sight of his siblings seems to revulse him. He could happily while his whole life away with his books and intellectual’s clubs... never sparing another thought for his family.

And Princess Eléonora — who is she?

A decadent fantasy. A promise unfulfilled. A delightful dream.

The country has not forgotten that they have a princess; but my own brothers have. If they notice me at all, it’s only in a passing glance. We hardly talk. We spend no time together. We never even dance anymore.

The rift between us has grown so deep, so vast, that none of us have any idea how to breach it. The peril is overwhelming. If we were to try — and perhaps we would try, if we ever needed each other enough — we could plunge into the chasm, dashed to pieces by the fall.

It isn’t my brothers’ faults. It is mine.

During royal balls, I am never allowed to make appearances. I do not go out in public or leave the castle grounds; and above all, I am not allowed to be alone. Someone must be watching over me at all times.

I’ve gotten used to living behind the scenes, never existing the ways my brothers do. I cannot occupy the same space. I do not have my own spotlight. I am allowed to be heard of, admired, and loved by the people… but never seen.

I barely exist.

This is why sneaking away any chance I get is such a thrill. I don’t mind being a fugitive, as long as I can run without being told to slow down, dance without careful eyes watching over me, laugh and play free of scrutiny. I must steal my own moments of freedom. I exist defiantly.

And I am happy that way.

My bare feet make no sound as they carry me through the thick grass. I hold my breath. Any noise could give me away, and I do not want to be found. Something else may betray me, but I will not betray myself. Not yet, with liberty in my heels, and the pulse of freedom thrumming through my veins.

I zip around the corner, and stop so fast the rest of my body cannot catch up with me. When I lurch, the grass beneath my feet is the only thing able to catch me. I prop myself up against the hedge, acting casual. The grin the stretches across my face is wide and exhilarated.

“I didn’t expect to find you here, Alfred.”

My brother straightens up slowly, closing the book in his lap --- but keeping a thumb in to hold his place. “Neither did I,” he replies. He does not sound thrilled to see me. “I thought I could be alone.”

“Funny. That’s what I was looking for, too.” My words are breathless, spoken past a heaving chest. I raise a hand up to my windswept hair, coiffing it.

“Shouldn’t you be in lessons?”

“You bet.”

I grin. Alfred’s eyes, always hard and dark, narrow at me; he may as well be interrogating a disobedient servant, rather than his own sister. It couldn’t be more obvious that he wants to be left alone, but I’ve never been good at taking hints… not to mention how glad I am to find my brother here. While I was anticipating spending the afternoon alone, someone else’s company -- even Alfred’s -- is better.

“Want to be alone _together?”_ I ask, cheerfully tugging a leaf out of my hair.

Alfred’s eyes scan my ruined dress, messy curls, and finally land on my bare feet. Compared to him, I look like a wild thing. The third prince distinguishes himself by always being put-together; his carefully combed hair is never out of place, his clothing well-fitted and flattering. There is something intimidating about his style; I know I can never hope to match it.

His mouth purses like he’s bit into a lemon. The tense line of his posture grows even more rigid, as if a strong wind might snap him in two.

“No,” he replies, and turns back to his book.

I blink. _Very concise, very Alfred._ It’s hard not to let the rejection sting, but I manage.

“Fine,” I reply, turning up my nose at him. “I don’t need you, anyway. You’re not as alone as you think.”

“I know,” Alfred says.

“Nick’s in the garden too. Down by the fountain with some chambermaid.”

Alfred might throw up a little in his mouth. “I know that.”

I stretch back, placing both hands on my hips, and flash my brother a shameless smile. “They’re keeping _very busy._ So, I guess the labyrinth isn’t as deserted as we thought, which _means_ \---”

“If I yell right now, someone will come and see what’s going on.” The glower Alfred turns on me is rough as a stone to the head, and just as blunt. “I’m supposed to be here. _You’re_ not. And we are not alone.”

I draw back, a tingle of unease creeping across my skin. The hair on the back of my neck stands up straight; a chill brushes my bare arms. Alfred would give me away in a heartbeat, but his certainty that we are not on our own unnerves me. No one is as attuned to the maze Alfred. When we were children, he could always tell the second someone stepped past the hedgerows. The energy in the air is attuned to him, as much as he is attuned to it. It is practically a part of him.

If he says someone else is here, _someone is here._

At once, I’m eager to get away. “Fine. I see how it is.” I roll my eyes, stepping backwards out of the grove. I leave him, his little bench, and his book in peace. “Have fun being alone, brother.”

“Don’t worry,” he calls after me. “I will.”

When I turn on my heel, I don’t bother looking back. There isn’t any point with Alfred. He’s carved from the same icebergs that sink ships far out in the Caladian Sea; no amount of teasing can break him down. He’ll just get annoyed, and might throw his book at me if I work hard enough.

I’m too eager to run, anyway. My feet fly beneath me; arms stretch wide, catching air in my opened hands. The certainty that I am being followed trails me, even as I force myself on faster and faster. I cannot escape it, no matter where I go. Alfred’s words echo in my head: _we are not alone, we are not alone._

The bridge is within my sights. Cross that, and it’s a straight shot to the Castle. I can conceal myself within the decrepit old playset, tug on old ropes and balance on rusted ladder rungs. It will be fun, in a way. Not as nice as the fountain, not as cool as the canopies. Fun, and alone, and that’s really all I can ask for —

Someone stands at the end of the bridge.

My feet falter and freeze over the bridge’s cool marble. As my spirits wilt, my entire body goes with them. I shrink down into myself. Suddenly, every detail of my haggard appearance — from my ruined dress to the sheen of sweat over my flushed face — feels like damning evidence.

“Mamma,” I greet, too dismayed to even smile. “You’re here.”

 _Of course_ she is. The only people who know the labyrinth well enough to navigate it are the royal children… and the queen who guided us through it from the time we could walk.

The sternness on my mother’s face would be enough to drain any remaining fire from me, if the mere sight of her hadn’t done that job so well. She crosses her arms. Her red lips purse until they are white beneath the color painting them. One long, thin brow arches, a judgement and condemnation all at once. I exhale out something like a whine, and hate myself for how ashamed I feel.

“I can’t _wait_ to hear the excuse you come up with for this one,” Mamma says.

“I promise,” I manage to say. “It will be really good.”

“It better be.” She marches across the bridge, each clack of her heeled shoes echoing like cannonfire. My shoulder is seized firmly, with little regard for the sleeve of my dress; fair enough, since it’s ruined anyways.

“How on earth could you be so reckless? Have you forgotten? This is a very busy day!”

Of course I haven’t forgotten. What made me so stir-crazy in the first place?

First, an afternoon packed full of lessons; and once those are done, the Arza delegation will arrive. The king of Arza will make his first visit unto our lands. The princess of Arza will be left behind once he leaves, to win the crown prince’s heart, and take my brother away from me.

I had to run wild today, because in just a few hours time, the royal engagement will be settled. Life as my family knows it will change forever.


	3. NORA: CHAPTER TWO

By the time I am bound up in organza and lace, watching the royal Arzian liner steam into the harbor, it is impossible to remember that just hours ago I was _free._

Nothing about the sharp pinch of heels compares with grass and dew under my bare feet. I cannot feel the wind past the heavy layer of makeup on my face. My hair is an immaculate coif, taming the untamable. I hold my breath through the proceedings, rigid at my brothers’ sides.

Alfred and Nick flank me; they have been positioned like sentries, as if to keep me from bolting. (This is one of the few public appearances I am allowed to make. Mamma is always cautious… just in case something were to _go wrong.)_   A few yards ahead, the king and queen stand at attention. My eldest brother stands at their side, smart and pressed in his white military uniform. Phillip has never served, but holds the rank of colonel, and bears each glistening medal on his chest with pride. How fitting that he would choose this outfit to meet his new fiance.

The Arzian princess has never set foot on Telle soil; we have never seen her face, except in pictures. My brother knows nothing about the girl he will marry in two months’ time. I suppose he must know more than I do --- Princess Cecilie of Arza is nineteen, an orphan, and the king of Arza’s only sister. From pictures, she looks petite and mild; no stories have drifted back to Telle to counter this first impression.

I can see how nervous Phillip is. He holds himself stiff as a tree, arms locked at his side, eyes set straight ahead. His golden hair has been combed and slicked to the side, not a strand out of place. Tall and clean-shaven, my brother is every inch the handsome prince. He will make a fine impression. Our mother would settle for nothing less.

Arzian flags wave in the wind, green and gold striking against the backdrop of a twilight sky. The lower the sun sinks, the more essential it becomes that we end these formalities soon; tonight is the reception ball, and the engagement will be announced by morning. This is not rushed -- engagements among royalty always move swiftly. It’s one of the reasons I dread getting engaged myself; you go from your own person to someone else’s second half in the blink of any eye.

The gangplank is lowered. Trumpets blare. Down streams the procession of Arzian courtiers, robed in light damasks and silks with entrancing patterns that ripple with their movements. Their hairstyles are piled in gleaming towers upon their heads, anointed with gems and liquid gold. Each person bows to the king and queen as they pass. I watch in amazement, stunned by such casual luxury worn by people who seem to think nothing of it.

There is no mistaking the King of Arza. When he steps down the gangplank, he is alone; the crowd collectively catches their breath. King Felix is a towering, broad man, with a heavy beard and shining eyes. He must be no more than thirty, and is undoubtedly handsome. He is also unmarried, with no intention of doing so any time soon. The military uniform he wears is adorned with more medals than my brother and father combined. King Felix is a soldier; he has led his country through war, fought alongside them, and won. Before the sudden death of both parents, the crown prince of Arza had a promising military career ahead of him; that was all pushed aside when he became king.

He walks like a military man, rod-straight, dripping pride like his countrymen drip with riches. He meets the crown prince’s eyes directly, and shakes his hands. He does the same for my father. For my mother, he drops into a sweeping bow, and presses a kiss to the back of her hand.

Then King Felix stands at my father’s side, and we all watch the princess descend.

In her pictures, Princess Cecilie of Arza looked small. In person, she is even smaller. Her limbs are thin and birdlike, features delicate, dark eyes doelike and gentle. Yet nothing about her is unimpressive. As she steps down the gangplank, every small step is sure of itself. Her gown is a rich ankara, beige with crimson flowers blooming along the gleaming fabric. Her hair is piled at the back of her head, glossed with liquid silver. She holds her head high. The sun catches her russet skin at just the right second to leave her glowing, like a piece of the sun borne down to earth. The crown of golden stars upon her head dance like a halo.

For a moment, I am like everyone else --- utterly blinded by the spectacle. The princess is far more beautiful than we anticipated.

Then Princess Cecilie stops in front of my brother and drops into a low curtsey. Only when she lifts her head do I get a clear look at her face. My mouth dries up; my heart stops.

The princess has tears in her eyes, though her face remains impassive. Her tiny lips are pressed into a stiff smile. When she lifts her head again, it is with all the forced dignity of one who won’t allow herself to behave any other way.

Never in my life have I seen someone look so utterly devastated.

Princess Cecilie of Arza looks as if her world is falling to pieces around her, and all she can do is watch.

Something about the sight is noble and pathetic all at once. There is no danger of this golden flower, with her delicate body and ironclad center, shattering; she will not dissolve to pieces in the middle of this assembly. A startling fragility lingers under her cool surface, however; it gleams through the cracks in her demure mask. She will remain standing for as long as possible, and not give in even once she has exhausted herself.

I want to reach out to her --- to offer a hand, even a smile. Something to tell her, in this sea of friends and strangers, _you are not alone._ Yet etiquette roots me to the spot. I can’t bound forward as I might like to, not until the ceremony is done. Given half the chance, I would seize it.

The chance doesn’t come. Trumpets bellow, and the parade of Arzian nobility slows to a trickle, then a full stop. National anthems are sung, flags are waved, and the Arzian ship steams out of our harbor. By the time formalities end, Princess Cecilie has retreated to the safety of her brother’s side. I take two steps forward, intent on introducing myself… but a firm grip on my hand holds me back.

I spin around, only to meet Nick’s intent gaze. He could not look more apologetic, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to let me go.

“Not now, Nora,” he mutters. “Mamma is in a frenzy already. Take it easy tonight for her, if not your own good.”

My mouth presses into a thin line. Of course. Isn’t everything for my own good?

Reluctantly, I slump back into line. Arguing with my brother isn’t fair --- he’s law enforcement, not the law itself. I will play the obedient daughter: I will walk back to the castle in the formal procession, then return to my room, and consent to being locked up there for the rest of the night. (Just like every night… and every day.)

I will be obedient --- and this, in its own way, must count as a victory.

* * *

 

“Eléonora of Telle, have you lost your mind?”

I fold my hands in my lap and say nothing.

“The recklessness — the sheer _recklessness_ you have displayed today and continue to exhibit, no matter how you are cautioned, no matter how many times you are proven wrong — is outstanding. How do you manage to sleep at night? It is as if you _want_ something dreadful to happen to you. Is your goal to bring tragedy unto yourself and this entire family? The entire country?”

Mamma seems to judge I am not paying proper attention to her tirade. A closed fist slams down on the comforter next to me, jarring my plush mattress. I bounce in place, and blink at the hand like a foreign object. After a few seconds, Mamma leans forward and glowers at me.

“If this country were to lose you, Nora, every citizen would lose a part of themselves.”

When Mamma is passionate about something, she must show it in her face. It is easy to tell what Mamma feels. She is not one of the aloof ice-queens who traditionally rule in fairytales. Love for her country courses through Mamma’s veins. It drives her every action, every movement — almost as strong as her love for our family.

When Mamma is angry, her face goes bright red, like a tomato left out in the sun. When she’s furious, her brows scrunch up, and her eyes squint tight as if she’s trying not to cry. I recognize the look well — I get the exact same way. (The only difference is that I have never seen Mamma actually cry.) Strands of wheat-gold hair have escaped her immaculate updo to fly about her flushed face; I can barely make out the blue of her eyes past the heat of her glare. Even meeting them for too long makes me feel like a boiled lobster. (Incidentally, the same color as Mamma’s face.)

“Eléonora,” she demands, slamming her fist down on the bed again. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“You’ve got,” I say, “a stress line. Right… here.”

As my index finger presses between her eyes, Mamma goes very, very still. I watch her take a deep breath and hold it in, trying to compose herself. Her eyes squeeze shut. When she opens them again, they are infused with determined calm, like a needle forcing medicine into a stubborn vein.

“Sometimes I am not sure,” she says, “if I have raised a daughter or a feral cat.”

I draw back, astonished. “Mamma! _Really?”_

“She never comes when she’s called. She is always sneaking off when she wants to, getting into trouble, scratching at people when she’s in a foul mood —“

“I’m sorry I ran off. Is that what you want to hear?”

Mamma’s lips set into a thin line. “It is a start.”

I throw up my hands, flopping back onto the bed. The impact jars the entire frame, bouncing me, and I can hear Mamma’s anxiety catch in her throat. “I went back to lessons, you know. I suffered through them all day. Then I allowed myself to be dressed up like a doll and paraded out to greet the Arzian —“

“You ran off to begin with.”

“I did!” I exclaim, flipping my hands down on both sides of my head again, just for good measure. We’re _well_ past this point.

Mamma sits down next to me on the bed, rocking the mattress. A soothing hand comes to rest on my knee; it weighs my spirits down to my toes. Whenever Mamma tries a new tack with me she gets gentle, so gentle, and I cannot be defiant in the face of her. (She knows it, too.)

“I do not pretend your free spirit isn’t a gift, my love. It always has been. The most fearless parts of you are what make you shine the brightest, and I love you for them. I adore you so much.”

I close my eyes. I _know this_ — I know it all.

“If something happened today, what would we have done? If you were in that maze, and… you were suddenly overcome. How long would it have taken to find you?”

I hang my head, frowning down at my folded hands. I might not have been discovered for hours. That is more than enough time for _anything_ to happen. Not to mention my brothers — Nick and Alfred right around the corners, unable to hear anything that might give my presence away… if something happened to me while I was alone, I would have only myself to blame.

My family, however, would bear that burden for the rest of their lives.

My brows furrow down at my lap; for just a second, I allow myself to be furious at the injustice of it all. Then I take a deep breath, look back up at Mamma, and shake my head.

“I’m sorry,” I say in a small voice. “I am very sorry, Mamma.”

Her eyes go tender. She reaches out, cupping my shoulder with one hand; the other brushes a wispy strand of blonde hair out of my face. Mother twines her fingers through the pale strands, brushing it out with utmost gentleness. I feel caught in the deadlights of her soothing gaze, unable to look away.

We share the same eyes, she and I — the entire family is blessed with the bright blue gaze of Telle royalty, but my mother and I could have been assembled side-by-side in a mirror. The same cornflower blue eyes, the same hair just straddling the line between gold and cream, the same proud nose and stubborn little mouth.

I am my mother’s daughter.

She lowers her head close to mine, presses our foreheads together, and breaths out. I relish the stability of her touch, and all the comfort it brings.

“You are my little girl, Nora. My child.” Her words are soft as a caress. “I have three sons, but they belong to the country… they belong to the world. You…”

She presses a finger into my breastbone.

“You _are_ my baby. You belong to me.” She shakes her head. “I could never endure losing you.”

“I’m sorry you must be afraid to. Every day.”

She cups my chin, regards me with tenderness for a moment, then shakes her head. “We endure,” she replies. Her slow pull away leaves me feeling like I have lost a safety blanket, as if the absence of her embrace has left me with nothing.

Sitting up, I brush down the skirt of my dress. Mamma primps and preens as she stands up, breezing over to my vanity to examine herself in the mirror. She must appear every inch the immaculate queen. Already, guests are assembling in the grand dining room for dinner, then the ball — all to welcome the Arzian delegation. No doubt, the king and princes are already down there, charming all with their pressed uniforms and handsome smiles.

I will not be allowed to go. No surprise there. I have never attended a ball before — why should I start now?

“You’ll be good tonight?” Mamma says, watching me over her shoulder in the mirror. “There are plenty of books to read. And you could play more chess.”

It is no fun playing chess against myself, and I cannot bear to sit and read while a party rages on just a floor below. I force a smile and nod. “Of course. You will give the king and princess my regards?”

“The king,” Mamma replies, straightening out her hair. “Princess Cecilie will not be coming down tonight.”

I perk up.

“The Arzian age of debut is older than our own. She will make her debut, it seems, at her engagement party later this year. Lucky girl. It’s a shame she cannot join us tonight, but she’ll be comfortable in the Blue Bedroom.”

“Yes,” I answer. My skin is prickling, heart racing. The princess is _just down the hall._   Already, I have a thousand ideas. “A shame.”

Mamma spins on her heel, breezes over me, and kisses me on both cheeks. “Be good, my love,” she bids me; it sounds more like a promise, drawn out of me without my single word of consent. I am still wiping lipstick off my cheeks when she goes.

As soon as the door closes behind her, I spring to my feet. Being alone gives me time to plan. We have ample time before the ball begins; these dinners always last hours. That’s more than enough time to get ready, to find a dress and wear it, to do our makeup… what makeup does the princess of Arza like to wear?

I’m getting ahead of myself. There is still the matter of escaping my room to deal with.

I tiptoe over to my bedroom door and knock three times on embellished marble. The sound echoes like cannon fire throughout the room. “Who’s out there? Is it Peter? Etienne?”

After a beat of silence, three knocks ring out from the other side. “Lieutenant Christophe, my lady,” comes an unfamiliar voice. “Assigned to defend her highness’s room against intrusion.”

My lips press into a narrow line of frustration. There are always guards outside my door, but their ostensible purpose is a thin veil for their real occupation. They are not stationed to keep others out... but to keep me _in._ Should I breathe too loudly, they can hear it from the other side of the door. At the smallest indication of something being wrong, I get a sharp rap of gloved knuckles, and a shout of “Princess, are you alright?” If I don’t answer immediately, they burst through the doors.

If it were one of the guards I know better, I might be able to get around them. Peter has tolerated my willful urges since I was a child; Guillermo knows not to ask any questions. With a soldier I don’t know, however, there’s no way around my guard. The new ones always take their job very seriously — honored to be even this close to the fabled princess.

* * *

 

No way around it, then.

I’ll have to go out the window.

This sounds more perilous than it is. I’ve scaled my balcony dozens of times — Nick and I learned together years ago, when we both discovered our own reasons for sneaking out. The rooms here are close enough together that I can maneuver from balcony to balcony, as long as I climb across the eaves. I never look down; the chance of disorienting myself is too great. What’s the point of looking down if you are only going forward?

My hands fumble only once. I am too sure of myself — a character flaw, maybe, but it’s served me well enough so far. I creep across the edges of the palace like a monkey, one sure foot in front of the other.

I reach the balcony lined with bluebells, and allow myself to tumblr over the rail. Muscles aching from exertion, I take a moment to catch my breath. Surely I must look like a mess — but what should I care, when the princess has already seen me at my most exquisite, dressed up like a porcelain doll?

It doesn’t occur to me that I’ve made a racket until a creak echoes over the sound of my labored breathing. The thin rail of light stretching across the marble floor finds its way right to my eyes.

“The front door presumably works, but it’s nice to know I have options.”

The princess’s voice is soft and calm, like clear water on a moonlit night. One hand lingers on the doorframe; the other comes to rest on her hip. She blinks down at me, scrutinizing, with a subtle curiosity in her gaze that gives me hope.

“The door’s less trouble,” she adds. I grin, lifting my head off the ground.

“It is, but the scenic route is nicer. Fresh air!”

She holds out a hand. Eagerly, I seize it. The princess hauls me up with surprising strength for her fragile frame.

Being face-to-face with Cecilie of Arza is not an experience I could have been prepared for. This close, her beauty is even more striking — from her shapely features, sparkling eyes, to the rich brown of her skin, she looks born to be a princess. Crystal stars still glimmer in her hair. Her lips are pursed in a cautious pout. My own haggard appearance leaves me her inferior in every way, yet I am too delighted at standing next to her to feel ashamed.

“We weren’t introduced before, were we? Not properly, anyways.” I grin, crooked and reckless. “Princess Nora of Telle, at your service, your highness.”

“Princess.” Like the flip of a coin, Cecilie sweeps into a graceful curtsey. “I am glad to meet you… even if this is the most unorthodox introduction I’ve had in, well...”

“Ever?”

“Exactly.” When she lifts her head, she’s smiling too. It makes her lovely face that much more striking. “You really could have used the door.”

“Ah, but you see, I couldn’t have. I’m not allowed to do that.” I hold one finger up as I stroll past Cecilie into the Blue Bedroom. It is just as it has ever been — very luxurious, and very blue. Cobalt silk curtains hang over the windows; the bedspreads and carpets are shimmering sapphire; silver accents set off the rich azure of the walls, like clouds against a summer sky. In the midst of it all, Cecilie’s dark suitcases seem out of place. I take a seat on the bed, bouncing atop the mattress, and spread my arms wide. “I’ve been locked in my room all night. A _prisoner.”_

Cecilie takes a few careful steps into the room, not bothering to close the balcony doors behind her. A soft breeze ripples her white dress. Her wide eyes leave her looking more doelike and delicate than ever. “Why?”

“My mother worries about me.”

“That must be nice.”

“It can be. To a point.” I must remember that Cecilie no longer _has_ a mother. “You have to understand, your highness. I don’t scale balconies to defy the queen. I scale balconies because I was absolutely desperate to meet you, and wasn’t sure when else I would get the chance. Now seemed like a perfect time.” I lift my arms out at my sides. “And it really is so nice to meet you!”

“It is,” the princess agrees, lowering her head. “I hope I haven’t disappointed you.”

“You’ve got plenty of time to do that. We’ve got to get off on the right foot, at least — since we’re going to be sisters!”

There is is again. That flash of _sadness_ in her eyes, fleeting as quicksilver. It is only tangible for an instant before fleeing in the face of of her self-restraint. That short second tells me more about Cecilie than her demure smiles ever could.

“I’ve never had a sister before,” I declare, “so I’m very glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad to be here too. It’s an honor to be welcomed to your lovely country with such graciousness.”

This is exactly the right thing to say; she could not be more proper if she tried. Rather than annoy me, I find myself frustrated. I am being anything but formal; is it possible that Cecilie doesn’t know how to be any other way?

A pang of sympathy lances through me like a bad cramp. That won’t do. If the poor girl doesn’t know how to shed her silks and silvers, I’ll have to show her. It’s my duty as princess, if not family.

(Not to mention, perhaps having a little fun on her first night here will bring some life into her pretty face… leave her looking less like a tragedy, and more an excited bride.)

“Not such a warm welcome,” I point out. “You haven’t even been invited to the ball thrown in your honor.”

Cecilie folds her hands. “Arzian customs are different. Women are not presented in formal settings until they turn twenty. I am only nineteen.”

“It’s sixteen here! Twenty seems like such a long time to wait!” I can’t help tilting my head. So the princess is old enough to get married, but not old enough to attend a ball? No wonder she seems so gloomy. As I kick my heels at the end of her bed, the idea I have been gradually molding in my head all night assumes definite shape. A smile creeps across my lips. When I look back up at Cecilie, the gleam in my eye startles her.

“Don’t you see? That’s why I’ve come.”

Her chin tilts down, cautious gaze probing me. “I don’t understand.”

I spring to my feet with a flounce of wrinkled tulle, wave my arm like a magic wand, and bestow an invisible tiding on the princess. Cecilie’s mouth drops open. My laugh bubbles around us both.

If there’s any welcoming gift I can give my new sister-in-law, it’s how to laugh in the face of rules. Tonight will be no revolutionary rebellion. I’ve been doing this all my life.

“Princess Cecilie of Arza, you will go to the ball!” I grin. “And you won’t be going alone, either.”

Seventeen years under an unbreakable curse have taught me one thing: doing everything you’re not supposed to is the only way you can _live_.


	4. CECILIE: CHAPTER ONE

Each step is measured, perfectly in time; each movement flows with the slow-ebbing tide of the crowd. A sea of people line up in the grand hallway, ready to be announced and descend the gliding staircase to the ball. We are just two faces out of many — masked, lovely, and perfectly anonymous.

There is an awful thrill in breaking the rules.

It isn’t something I do often. None of this is. No one in their right mind would ever call the princess of Arza a rebel.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I am not afraid of consequences… and certainly have never been complacent. The idea of going against the grain isn’t a familiar one to me; that doesn’t mean I can’t, or won’t, do it. No strict moral code binds me to what I’m told. No curse urges me down the straight-and-narrow path, or else my skin will turn green and my hair will fall out in clumps.

Unless you consider _responsibility_ a curse.

I am Cecilie Oganya Ema Aladi, Guardian of the Riverlands, Lady Princess of Arza. My country only has one princess at its helm, and that is me. If I were to do something outrageous, the scandal would not just fall on my head, but that of the entire royal family. (What few of us there are left: my brother the king, my uncles, and dear auntie Rosalie.) I respect my position too much for that; I respect my family; I respect myself.

No, _Princess Cecilie_ shall never be synonymous with scandal.

This is why I am so cautious now. I feel as if I am balanced on the head of a pin; my stomach flutters with anticipation so strong that it could easily carry me away. I take a deep breath, but it does little to settle my anxiety. Perhaps another reason I am so rarely disobedient is because I don’t have the nerve for it.

Breaking rules is an art form… but I am no artist. I don’t have the steady hands for painting, the eloquence for poetry, or the imagination for rebellion. Never could I have thought this scheme up by myself. It would not have occurred to me to sneak into the welcome ball… until the princess of Telle landed on my balcony.

It is Princess Nora’s presence at my side now which grounds me. She is the only reason I have not turned on my heel and run back to my room; her grip on my arm, I think, is all that keeps me anchored to earth. Everywhere we look, there is something to exclaim over. No matter where we are, something ignites her excitement. She has lived in this palace her entire life, but revels in each moment as if it is her first.

The castle must look very different when it is not decorated for a ball. Everything about Telle’s royal palace is vast — wide hallways, open rooms, and the highest ceilings I have ever seen. The architecture itself stretches up to the heavens, as if it is ready to break open and allow the sky to shine through. It is as if someone was terrified of feeling trapped within this sprawling paradise; instead of allowing the walls to close in on him, he built out, and out, until the entire castle is filled with almost too much space. It’s hard to tell now, with lavish decorations everywhere in sight, glitter and garland hanging from the ceilings, and a thousand people crowding into the hall… but empty, I imagine the palace of Telle must feel overwhelmingly large.

And _this_ is the place I am to call home for the rest of my life. May the gods help me.

“Oh — oh, Cecilie, look there!” Princess Nora leans dangerously forward on her tall heels, pointing. I follow her inclination towards the open windows, where fireworks have already begun to explode. A shower of color rains down against the night sky; for a second, I am enraptured by the fizzle and glow.

“I love fireworks! We have them every year for my birthday! Oh, I didn’t think I’d see any tonight!” Princess Nora is smiling wide enough to split her lips open. Her eyes are bright, face warm and glowing. “Can you believe it?”

“They’re lovely,” I confirm, eyes scanning the crowded room once more. “Telle has outdone itself in welcome.”

Princess Nora grins. “We haven’t even gotten to the ball yet! Wait and see.”

Just like that, the buzz of anxiety within me increases threefold. I can barely breathe. Oh gods, what am I doing here?

It is a question I have asked myself a hundred times since leaving the shores of my homeland behind me. The answer is always the same: I am here to marry the crown prince.

(How funny to think that if I were a rule breaker, I might be sitting safe at home right now, instead of sneaking into a ball in a land I do not know, and do not _want_ to know.)

We reach the doors at last, and the swell of people parts like the Aegean Sea. Trumpets blare by my ears, but I hardly hear them. Before me stretches a long golden staircase; at the bottom of its winding path, Telle’s royal ball is in full swing. An array of colorful dancers whirl across the floor, amidst a shower of golden stars slowly raining down from the ceiling. The orchestra plays a jaunty tune; bubbling laughter and clink of crystal fills the air. It is the first ball I have ever seen, and is it marvelous.

Princess Noraseizes my hand, then just as abruptly releases it. The baronet calls out the name she’s given _(“The Countess Malena-Milany!”)_ and she starts her descent down the stairwell. Each step is relished. Bathed in the light of a thousand electric candles, the princess glitters; her gown, a cascade of peach taffeta that billows out just below her knees, shines, while the roses lining her low neckline draw all the attention to her face. Everything personal about her is concealed behind a gleaming mask of pink and gold, adorned with pale feathers. Still, she commands attention with the sheer force of her personality. Anyone looking towards the stairwell as she descends can’t help but stare.

I must follow after her. Holding my breath only makes my chest feel like it will burst; so I exhale in one great rush, and step down the stairs.

“The Baroness Rochefort!” bellows the baronet. I hold my head high, sheltered behind my mask as well as my fake name. Tonight, I am not a princess — that is the only reason I am here at all. I shall be someone else. Someone who belongs in Telle. Someone who might even be happy here.

Do people stare at me? I cannot tell. I neither look or flinch until I have reached the bottom of the stairs, and Nora seizes hold of both my gloved hands again.

“Can you believe we’re really here?”

As a matter of fact, I can’t. We are sharing this wild caper together. I’m a little surprised at how quickly I have been taken into the princess’ confidence — this sister of mine, this girl I barely know — but I will not reject her. She may have proposed this idea, but the incentive is mine; now, I am frightened of being left alone.

“Everyone was staring as you came down! You should have seen it. You looked like a great blue butterfly!”

My hand drifts up to my mask, where I self-consciously thumb at diamonds lining the pale blue silk. I am not used to Telle’s style of dress, gowns of one color that pop out and end just past the knee. Arza’s fashions have far more colors, and are far more complex; but I wear them like a second skin. I feel self-conscious in this borrowed dress.

“You were beautiful too. The crowd was dazzled.”

Nora beams, and it makes her glow. If I am not quite sure what to make of the princess yet, I know one thing. She is not lovely; but she captures attention through her personality. Nora’s face is plain and oval-shaped, with a strong nose and light brows. Her hair is a mess of white-blonde curls, reaching just past her shoulders. She is average shaped, maybe even inclined to be plump, if she were not so energetic. Indeed, the princess never seems to _stop_ moving. There is life in her every fidget, every smile, every step; she bubbles over with it. If  Nora were not royalty, her animation could easily find her a home among circus performers or theatrefolk. As it is, she should be the life of Telle’s royal court.

This isn’t the case. _Why_ is a mystery, but the king and queen of Telle are notoriously reclusive with their youngest daughter. Few diplomats have ever seen her; even in her own country, she is hidden away behind closed doors. Princess  Nora is more rumor than concrete girl. When my brother briefed me on every member of the royal family before my arrival, we only had stories of the princess to go on. She was described as an “amiable, angelic child” ten years ago, by Bionese diplomats to whom young children may as well have been an alien species. Two years later, a Grendellian noblewoman described the princess as “a holy terror”.

I didn’t know what to expect from my new sister-in-law. Nora… defies expectations.

“Dance,” she suddenly declares. It is more like an order than a suggestion. She is already fixed upon the sea of whirling bodies. “We must dance.”

“We need partners.”

“That’s easy.” Nora flashes me a white-toothed smile. Then, without another word, she abandons me by the staircase and strides straight toward a handful of young men, wearing masks and lion-manes, standing on the sidelines. A few words are exchanged; just like that, Norahas a partner.

I am left standing alone.

Exactly what I was afraid of.

The only thing more dreadful than standing in the middle of a crowd, overwhelmed… is standing in that crowd alone. I am alone now, and most certainly overwhelmed. Everything is defying my expectations tonight, from my new sister-in-law, to the splendour of this nation, to a grand party itself. Then again, I had very little idea of what to expect. My senses are overwhelmed; my mask shields me from prying eyes, but I still feel as if I am drowning in a sea of strangers, without any arms to stretch down and haul me from the water.

The only people not hiding behind the sanctity of masks are the royals. Across the room, I spot my brother, resplendent in his robe of rich purple silk. Instinct propels me towards him; I haven’t made it halfway across the room before I freeze. Felix cannot see me. The moment he lays eyes on me, he will _know_ who I am, and that I have broken the social convention of our people. Even worse... if the Telle rulers were to recognize me, they might take offense. No. Venturing near the other royals is not an option.

So what does that leave me with? I survey my surroundings in a flustered haze. The orchestra rings in my ears. Dancers reel by me in a whirlwind of color. It is all too much to process. The safety of the refreshments table at the far end of the room beckons to me, and I can’t reach it soon enough.

If this is what all of Telle is like, I'm not sure how I can bear to live here. Arza is colorful, but never flamboyant. One of the things I feared most about being sent to a foreign country was how overwhelmed I would be. Everything around me is new, and foreign, and confusing.

 _“You do not need to fall in love with the country,”_ my brother told me. _“Your job is to marry the prince.”_

The thing is, I cannot live in a place I don’t love; I could certainly never rule over it. I love Arza. I love my home. I do not think I like Telle.

 _“And I must perform my job to satisfaction?”_ I asked my brother, on the day he told me his plan. Felix is always stern, but when I questioned him, his face grew hard while his eyes went soft.

 _“You always do, don’t you?”_ he said, knowing me too well. I watched the tension in his brows grow. _“Unless…”_

There _is_ one way out. One possible hope for escape. I cling to my brother’s words, confided so carefully, and I am sure it is the only reason I have not turned on my heels and fled back to Arza yet. Nothing is set in stone --- I am bethrothed, but I may not become a bride.

_“People say the throne of Telle is unstable. The people feel disconnected with their crown, and discontent flows through the streets like gutter water. I will not transplant you to a land steps away from revolution.”_

In the middle of this gilded display of national prosperity, you could never tell --- but whispers of revolution afflict Telle’s government like a plague. The young princess might not be aware, but the king and queen certainly are. So, too, must the crown prince be… and Arza’s spies see everything here, as they do in every country.

Is it a sin of me to pray something will happen? That some great conspiracy will reveal itself before my eyes, or some unspeakable danger rise up which makes it impossible for me to stay?

I know how selfish it is, to wish harm onto another royal house… but I do not want to stay in Telle. I want to _go home._ A revolution seems like the only way. After all, this is not my country yet.

Tentatively, I pluck a bright green pastry off a tray laden with them, and bite into it. It tastes as _pastel_ as its color suggests. I make a face, not used to the rush of cream and sugar. Were it not a ghastly breach of decorum, I would spit it straight out. As it is, I can only choke it down. The grimace on my face becomes more pronounced as I force the bite of pastry down, hands neatly folding the rest up into a napkin.

“Do you not like it?”

The voice startles me. My hands fumble. The napkin slips to the floor. My first instinct is to snatch it up again, and not until I have straightened and spun around do I realize who is speaking to me.

The crown prince himself.

A part of me is proud to recognize him at all. After all, we have barely met; lowered eyes and a bow, surrounded by courtiers, hardly counts as an introduction. We have never exchanged a single word before; in fact, this is the first moment I am really able to look at him.

There can be no denying that Crown Prince Phillip is handsome. He towers over most of the room, tall and slender, with a self-possessed bearing that could easily be called regal. His hair is a shade of burnished gold, like grain blowing in a summer breeze; his eyes, however, are bright cerulean, and clear as a cloudless sky. His jaw is square and refined; while his lips form a natural pout, he is in no way less becoming for it. He wears his youth well, as most twenty-four year olds are apt to do — but there is little naïveté in his face, and even less cruelty.

He is the perfect prince… until I look closer.

Beneath the stiff military uniform so popular in the southern courts, every muscle is tense. The prince’s eyes remain fixed straight ahead. He stares out at the ballroom, but does not follow any dancers. He’s perfectly formal, and immaculately unnatural. At a single glance, no one could ever tell. Maybe I am only able to recognize his emotion because I feel just the same way.

We are both _incredibly uncomfortable_ in the middle of this grand soirée.

In spite of all common sense, this actually puts me at ease. We are on equal ground here, in more ways than one. There is no reason to be intimidated by this young man, with his solemn, handsome face.

“It is… very different from anything we have in my homeland,” I answer honestly. “I have never tasted anything like it before.”

“Ah.” He nods as if this makes perfect sense. His serious expression does not change; his eyes glance over me once, then back to the whirling dancers. I wonder if he is trying to spare me the discomfort of being studied by the crown prince --- or if _he_ is the one uncomfortable looking at me for too long. “So, that… grimace. The one you just did. That signifies approval in your homeland?”

I chuckle, so suddenly it takes even myself by surprise. “Not at all,” I reply. “I hated it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” His eyes flicker towards me again, and he sounds genuinely apologetic. I appreciate it; having just insulted his country’s cuisine, he doesn’t have to be so generous. After a moment (in which the prince doesn’t speak, and I don’t dare to) he clears his throat. “You won’t be offended, I hope, if I recommend the pink ones? They’re strawberry. That might suit you better than lime.”

I almost choke. “That was _lime?”_

“It didn’t taste like it?”

I have no idea what it tasted like. “The sugar must have numbed my tongue,” I reply, shaking my head. “I’ll have to pass on a second, I’m afraid.”

“Of course.” He conversation drops like a stone, through no fault of my own. I see the brief, well-concealed flash of panic in Prince Phillip’s eyes when he realizes he can think of nothing else to say. His eyes train back on the dancers once again.

I refuse to allow myself to be embarrassed. We will not be two statues, standing side-by-side in silence. We have our dignity, after all.

“You do not dance, Your Grace?” I inquire, like a gentle shove from a window ledge.

The prince clears his throat. The gesture is casual, but telling. As the crown prince, he is expected to dance — with whatever woman calls upon him. He is anticipating my company now that the words have left my mouth; I have trapped him without meaning to.

“Unfortunately, I do not think I will dance tonight,” I add quickly, before the Prince gets a chance to reply. His striking blue gaze turns on me. For the first time, I see surprise register in his eyes.

“Do you not like it?” he asks, as if concerned his company is the only thing stopping me.

I smile. “On the contrary. While I enjoy the dances of my homeland, I’ve no great gift with your Tellian ones. Were I to dance tonight, my partner’s feet would wish I hadn’t.”

“I’m sure you can’t be so bad,” he murmurs with the hint of a smile. For the second time, I see a flash of humanity — he is not the formal marble figure of a prince, but a real creature of flesh and blood. He’s got a sense of humor somewhere in there. “You look very graceful.

“That’s kind of you.” I lower my head. Though the remark was guileless, my cheeks burn.

In contrast, the prince’s cheeks bloom with pink as his words sink in. He shakes his head, medals on his chest clinking as his arms brace behind his back. “Not that… I was measuring you, of course. I wasn’t looking at you too closely, or at all, really. Not at all. I am sorry if I implied —“

“Your Grace, now I have no clue _what_ you meant to imply.”

“Nothing,” he says promptly. I have every reason to be offended. In spite of myself, I laugh instead.

“Well, that is the kindest _nothing_ I have ever received.”

“Then you ought to receive many more nothings.”

If he hadn’t meant his first compliment, this next one couldn’t be more deliberate. So, the prince can be bold after all. I now my head again, still smiling, and am thankful for the sanctuary of my mask. Though my skin is very dark, if he could see my face, Prince Phillip could certainly tell that I am blushing.

“If we are exchanging nothing-at-all’s, may I give you one?”

“If you’d like.”

“I would,” I decide, and offer him another gentle smile. “You have lovely eyes.” I feel a flush of pleasure as the prince’s blue gaze widens. “There. Now we must be even.”

The prince mulls over this for a second before shaking his head. “Not quite. Not at all. We cannot simply get away with saying nothing to each other. We have to say one thing each.”

“An important thing?”

“Very important,” he replies solemnly. “Something that will return us to sensible conversation.”

“So… politics, or weather, or shoe polishing techniques.”

“Those are the most important things of all,” the Prince agrees.

I can’t hide my smile, and don’t bother to. While deliberating my very important statement, I spin around and grab a pink pastry from the same tray that held the green ones. Instead of tasting it myself, I present it to the prince, with all the gravity of an armistice treaty. He accepts it, bowing his head.

“Alright,” I say. “The most important thing I can tell you right now… is that I am hiding. I’m hiding in plain sight, because I don’t want to be recognized.”

I can see something spark in his eyes, lightning over water bringing the whole sea to life. He regards me with fresh interest, a keen sort of curiosity that pulls a curtain over the awkward young prince from moments ago. At once, it is clear what a shrewd politician he must make; Prince Phillip has a mind that processes information like a summer monsoon, and does not let something go until he has made sense of it. I have just given myself up, and I don’t regret it.

“Who are you hiding from?” he inquires.

I smile. “Myself.”

“And what would happen if you were found?”

“I would be very disappointed.”

The prince bows his head. I regret the broken connection of our gazes, if only because I can no longer tell what he is thinking. I do not see a moment of recognition, do not see any lightning strike or moment when the dome shatters. All I see it the top of that burnished head, and the golden crown which rests nearly over his hair.

“It’s my turn, then?” he asks after a few seconds. I nod in confirmation, and he lifts his head up again. He is serious as ever, though his eyes are bright. “Very well. I… cannot stand large parties.”

My brows furrow. “You would not be the only one.”

“True. But they put me completely beside myself, and it is unforgivable. I lose all sense of — tact, of social grace, of eloquence…” He waves a hand as if to prove his point. “You see? I haven’t even asked your name.”

“I haven’t offered it. I’m sorry.” I bow my head, considering. “Then again, I haven’t asked yours.”

“Me? But you already —“ He cuts himself off, completely baffled. There’s not a soul in this room who doesn’t recognize the crown prince. Chances are, he’s never had to introduce himself in his life. We were announced to each other, not properly acquainted. If this is the first conversation we will ever have, it seems like things should be done properly.

“I only know two things about you: something very important, and something that means nothing at all. If we’re even, we must be even.”

“How diplomatic,” he says. Behind that mild tone, I can hear honest delight, and it shines on his face. Without a second’s hesitation, he dips into a low bow. This is the true gesture of royalty --- refined to perfection. His hand grips mine gently, as if it is a tiny glass bird, and he is determined not to shatter it.  
“His Imperial Highness, Phillip Alexander of Telle…” As he straightens up, his eyes remain locked on mine. “At your service, Madonelle.”

My curtsey is equally perfected; it would be the pride of any noblewoman. Nothing less would be expected of a princess. “My name,” I say, and give a weighted pause, “is the Baroness Rochefort.”

“A Baroness!” He pretends to be surprised, but a smile tugs at his lips. “Really?”

“Indeed, Highness,” I reply, not breaking his gaze

I can see the wheels turning in his head, a slow amusement creeping over his face. It makes him seem very boyish --- as if he is not used to being delighted by much, and is thrilled to seize the moment. I am glad to have sparked happiness within him, even if it is just for a second; it was not my intention to sneak into this ball just to meet the prince, but now I am very glad I have.

“Well, Baroness Rochefort, now that we’re well-acquainted with each other…” One of his fine eyebrows quirk. “Would you like to dance?”

A tiny thrill runs through me. “As I said, I… do not know the steps.”

“That’s alright. I know them very well.” He offers me a hand. “You can follow my lead --- if you’d like to.”

I find that I would, very much indeed --- and the flicker of hesitation in his eyes as I regard him only cements my decision.

“Teach me how to dance, Your Grace.”

My hand slips into his, and it could not be a more natural fit.

As we step onto the dance floor, my heart beats steadily in my chest; when his arm settles over mine, other hand politely lingering over my hip, I can only smile. It is my first time dancing to these melodies, these unfamiliar steps;  I feel a flash of anxiety when faced with my partner, but the prince will not allow me to be so. When we begin to move, he makes sure we are in tandem. After a few moments, it is the easiest thing in the world.

I can almost forget that this is the man I am sworn to marry.

Not true — not set in stone. _Not yet._ I cling to this memory, like a guardrail keeping me from plunging overboard and drowning in the Prince Phillip’s crystalline eyes. There are many more factors to my presence here than a simple marriage; there are politics, discontent, and the ever-present fear of revolution.

This cannot be simple; I cannot allow it to be.

Just for this moment, however, dancing with Phillip is the easiest thing in the world, and I allow myself to forget.

Where is the danger in a single dance?


	5. A STRANGER’S INTERLUDE

Danger lies in the most obvious places.

Close your eyes. Don’t peek, no, and don’t wonder why. Don’t think too hard about it. Deep down, you know exactly what you’re looking for.

 _Do you feel it?_ Those eyes... watching you from the dark. _Do you feel it?_ That something that doesn’t belong. _Do you feel it?_ That pressing certainty that you are being seen by something you cannot stare back at. Something that has gotten so good at living in the shadows that light can no longer touch it. Something that may not even be really there.

Now, open your eyes.

See? It’s gone. Everything looks just as it should be.

What were you afraid of?

The moments when you can’t see danger are the only times you know where it truly is: right in front of your eyes.

There are a thousand tricks to hiding in plain sight. The first, and most important, is making yourself invisible. Once you’ve figured that out, everything else comes easily. It is like slipping into a new pair of shoes, and wearing them out until they fit like a second skin. Once you’ve learned to blend in, no one can see you.

There is an awful freedom to being invisible.

It’s something that cannot be understood unless you’ve experienced it; and I have, I have, many times over. When I charmed state secrets out of the prime minister, I slipped beneath the mask of a Bionese noblewoman and no one suspected a thing. In Gaddon, I masqueraded as a tavern whore. On Lysander Island, during the peasant uprising, I wore the skins of a revolutionary and frightened noblewoman, depending on time of day.

In modeling yourself after a chameleon, it seems like it should be easy to forget who you are… but I’ve never had that problem.

The most dangerous threats don’t dwell in the shadows. They hide in plain sight, perfectly placed — where no one would think to look.

Blue is the national color of Telle, and the most fashionable color right now. Half the ladies in this ballroom are wearing blue gowns; the young woman dancing with the prince looks striking in powder-blue tulle which billows out around her knees, as if she’s floating on a cloud.

Because it is the most innocuous color of the night, my outfit is carefully coordinated to match the occasion. An azure dress, black heels, and a silver mask that conceals my face behind that of a fox. I wear no flashy jewelry, nothing that could catch the eye.

I am perfectly insignificant… and that makes me invisible.

As the music turns, so too do I — locked in a dance, hand in hand with my partner. He looks at me; I look back at him. Neither of us really see each other. I can tell he is distracted from me, and this is fine, because my attention is somewhere else as well.

At the head of the room, the king sits in his gilded throne. His dancing days are far behind him. He is a dignified gentleman, not far past fifty, with a streak of silver hair and a well-trimmed beard. His eyes, the sort of blue which hold fragments of oceans, overlook the crowd with mild interest. He seems far more occupied in his own thoughts. Ever pensive, ever cautious… that is the King Arvid his people know.

Across the room, Queen Diana is, of course, active. When she wants, the Queen can be ten places at once; tonight, all her attention is focused on the Arzian king. She sores on him with compliments and flattery, without ever appearing to fawn. She is nothing if not calculated, and good at weaving her web. The foreign king doesn’t suspect a thing… or if he does, he is too polite to say. When he asks her to dance, Queen Diana graciously accepts.

In the absence of the princess — as always, hidden away from the crowds — I am left with only the princes observe. In one case, this is easy. Prince Alfred, dressed like a shadow in silver and dark blue velvet, has lingered against the wall for most of the night. He is not the dancing type. (If I got close enough, I could certainly change that… but that is not why I’m here.)

The crown prince is occupied with his partner. No one else could gain his attention if they tried. This leaves the middle son… and Prince Nicholas, as usual, finds himself in no short supply of attention.

It is easy to spot him. Prince Nicholas draws all the light in the room towards himself, then radiates it outwards. He is naturally magnetic. There is an effortless grace in his white smile, in the dimples on his cheeks, the sweep of his chestnut hair, or the elegant shadow of stubble. He appears not to try at all; thus everything comes naturally to him. It is the easiest thing in the world to act like you have everything -- when, in fact, you  _do._

He stands in the epicenter of a brightly colored storm; giggling ladies in gilded masks crowd around him, all eager for a taste of the prince’s wit. In his own court, he is king.

Perhaps I stare too long. The prince raises his gaze from one of his last companions and locks with mine. Interest flashes across his face. Then, before I know it, he is making his way over. He comes to a stop in front of me. I remain still, silent, unbreathing.

“Madonelle,” the prince greets. He bows, but never tears his eyes from mine. I feel that blue gaze wash over me like ocean waves, coaxing and playful. This is how he draws so many women in; this is Prince Nicholas’ trick, how he makes himself loved. Being wise to it must give me immunity.

He straightens up; I, too, pull out of my curtsy. “Would you care to dance?”

I did not come here to dance with a prince. I am here to be close to the royal family; to keep an eye on them, observe, learn all I can. Every little detail of their gilded, _selfish_ lives.

I smile. The hand tucked demurely into his tightens.

“It would be my honor, Your Highness.”

He steers me into the dance; I allow myself to be led. Prince Nicholas smells of oranges and summer rain. The cuff links on his fine suit are worth more than the average peasant farmer makes in a lifetime. Being this close to him fills my head with a swimming revulsion, so heady that I could keel over, if I weren’t also furious.

We move in tandem; the dance whirls, in jerky, sharp movements. I follow each step, my eyes never leaving the prince’s own. He is a bloated carcass, and will make such easy prey for all the starving creatures.

I am the danger that lurks in the dark. I am what they are all afraid of. _Chaos, overthrow, revolution._

I am right before their eyes, and none of them have a clue.


	6. CECILIE: CHAPTER TWO

The rest of the night passes by in a haze. I stand in the center of a carousel, watching the world spin around me. The orchestra slurs into a single, neverending song; the blue of color and revelry that spins outside cannot distract me. I am comfortable in my own refuge, with no one but the prince to distract me.

By the time we dance our last reel, I am out of breath, and he is smiling. He has the sort of smile that draws you in; it makes him look younger and carefree, in a way that seems incongruous with any prince. Letting myself think of him any other way is dangerous, I know — he cannot simply be _Phillip_ — but he does not seem so princely when he mutters jokes that make me roll my eyes, and accidentally steps on my foot.

He is not what I expected either, but I couldn’t be more pleased.

(There was a part of me that dreaded marrying a stranger, but that same part was terrified of being wed to a mindless robot of oligarchy — a stern man who spoke over me and acted as if he towered over the world. Prince Phillip is anything but. His feet are firmly on the ground, and his voice is soft.)

Even when our dance is done, he doesn’t go. We linger near each other, too caught up in our conversation to notice anything else. Perhaps my brother has spotted me, and I am an international scandal in-the-making; perhaps the King of Telle has just keeled over, and Prince Phillip suddenly ascended. The sky could fall down on top of us and we wouldn’t be the wiser.

“I read it when I was twelve, and didn’t understand half the story at the time — but since then I’ve read it twice more, and it’s my favorite book of all time.”

“Of all time?” I echo, incredulous. “That’s a bold statement.”

“I can be very bold with my books.”

“I can’t believe it. _Toil and Tranquility_ isn’t even Hemsmith’s greatest work!”

“It’s over 1500 pages —“

“And the most highly acclaimed! That doesn’t make it his best.”

The prince crooks an eyebrow, gaze rapt upon me. I can’t remember the last time someone was genuinely interested in what I had to say about my favorite books… or the last time it was so easy to make conversation.

“Fine,” he says. “What would you say is Hemsmith’s greatest?”

I don’t hesitate. _“Lisette du Camellia,_ of course.”

He sputters, then laughs out loud. It is an uncharacteristically brash response, and he looks flustered a second later, but doesn’t apologize. “The book about the actress and her illegitimate husband? It’s a love story. _Toil and Tranquility_ is an epic.”

“A story told on a large scale doesn’t make it better!” I plant my hands on my hips. “When you compare substance, what do the two books offer? What is the great message of _Toil and Tranquility?”_

He hesitates. A frown slides over his face, brows furrowing, and I must fight back a smile.

“I see your problem, Your Grace. You have to learn to look past the end of your nose.” His very nose crinkles, and I laugh out loud. “To see the big picture. Think critically, on a broad scale. And maybe ask more questions, while you’re at it.”

His confusion melts into wry amusement. “My mother always says kings don’t bother to ask questions. You have courtiers to tell you exactly what’s going on, and then you make sense of it all.”

My lips purse. “I can’t agree. A good king would know when to ask questions; a great king knows the right ones to ask.”

He considers this for a long moment, thoughtful, then concedes with a nod. “Perhaps you’re right. But I am no king at all, yet.”

“There’s still plenty of time to learn, then.” I break into a smile. After a moment, he smiles back.

“So. _Toil and Tranquility?”_

“It’s a novel about the wheel of fortune,” I reply. “How fickle our luck really is — and how easily circumstances change. The pendulum swings both ways. Ultimately, the novel is saying that we can only do our best in life, because there is no predicting where we’ll end up in the end. We can’t fight fate.”

It’s a grim realization, one that settles like vinegar in my mouth as soon as I’ve voiced it. What is my fate — to marry into foreign royalty and leave my home? In five years, will I be able to recognize who I’ve become?

Prince Phillip nods, somber as a judge. I wonder if he’s as unsettled by the words as I am. “So, _Lisette du Camellia_ is about… the opposite. Taking one's destiny into their own hands?”

“Yes.” I'm distracted, but pleased with him. “Exactly. Lisette spends the novel fighting against every principle _Toil and Tranquility_ established. She is determined to have control of her own fate… not to be controlled by anyone else.”

The prince raises an eyebrow. “She dies at the end.”

“True… but she lived first. And her death is suicide, the ultimate act of self-destination.”

“That —“ Prince Phillip holds up a finger, chuckling. “Is an entirely different conversation. Not one for the ballroom. We are all pulled by the tides of our fate, Madonelle. There is no escaping that.”

I frown. “True… but perhaps we are all fighting, as well.”

“Are you?”

His question startles me. My eyes widen, entire body going still. I stare as if seeing him for the first time. After a moment, he tentatively lays a hand over mine, as if eager to awaken me from a trance.

“There is no harm,” he murmurs, “in fighting.”

I open my mouth to reply, but do not get the chance. A sudden interruption pulls the prince away; he turns to face a courier urgently demanding his attention, and in seconds is being drawn back into the circle of diplomats he was so eager to escape from. Before being pulled away, he has just enough time to kiss my hand; it is the only goodbye I receive, or would be content with.

It is as if I have emerged from underwater, minus a vital limb. His absence pulls the rest of the room into stark perspective; I am here again, not without but within. It couldn’t be more disconcerting. I have no desire to dance with anyone else, or to talk to other men. My heart is pounding. My head whirls with the dancers. Life has never seemed more colorful, or more chaotic.

How strange… for the first time, I feel like a bride instead of a prisoner.

My thoughts have not turned to Princess Nora for hours, so I am startled when she reappears a few minutes later. She sweeps in like a bird of prey, snagging my arm, and beams when I jump.

“There you are! I was looking for you earlier, but you seemed terribly busy.”

My cheeks flood with heat; once again, I am glad no one can tell. It is not just the suggestive tone to the princess’ voice, but the way she smiles, as if she knows every one of my secrets --- even the ones I’m not aware of myself. My lips twist. I am frowning instead of pouting, whatever the princess’ giggle suggests to the contrary.

“Well, I hate to disturb you, but some guards took notice of me across the room… so I think it’s best we sneak out.”

Leaving the party so soon is a disappointment, but I won’t argue. An early exit is far preferable to being discovered. My pulse races at the thought of getting away with such a caper ---- the first real mischief I’ve ever engaged in. And what a night it has been!

We sneak out through the balcony doors; Nora hops over the rail without hesitation, and I follow her. It is a short drop down into the gardens, where soft grass makes me stumble in my heels. Nora throws out her arms for balance, chasing a trail of cobblestones down, away from the comforting light of the party. I follow her along the path, into the little garden glen. Every tree is illuminated with blue fairy lights, glimmering like stars in the night; this provides a haze of light for us until we reach our destination.

The marble fountain is fixed in a glen of lilacs. Not far in the distance, we can still hear the comforting hum of the party; it’s dim glow can be seen from the corner of my eye. No one will notice us here, however, unless we draw attention to ourselves.

Nora is beaming as she throws herself down on the fountain’s flat rim, legs swinging over the side. I find myself grinning too. Maybe the summer air is getting the better of me; maybe it is simply giddiness from our great escape, and all that preceded it. Whatever the cause, I tip my head back up to the inky sky, unable to stop smiling.

In the center of the fountain, the goddess Małgorzata is poised with her arms raised; in her clasped hands, she holds a glowing orb of light. As water flows over her, this light is reflected, illuminating the entire fountain with a warm glow, like liquid gold falling from the godess’ hands. Cast against this light, Nora is stunning. Her curls have turned to spun gold, and the pink of her dress reflects against the water, which in turn shines back on her. Her smile only cements the image of her glowing, as if she is a deity unto herself, and the world turns on its head at her whim.

“So,” she demands. “What did you think?”

“It was lovely,” I reply, clasing my hands. “Oh, it was all so lovely.”

“It was.” Her voice is brimming with delight, like champagne bubbling over the rim of a glass. “I danced with so many people that I lost count. My heart is still racing! I drank this bright green cocktail, and tried some little hors d'oeuvres called _blęnka,_ which they only serve at parties --- gods, it was terrible! Then I danced some more, even with the Prime Minister. No one suspected a thing!”

“I only danced with the prince.” I shake my head. “Crown Prince Phillip. I didn’t even mean to meet him, but I’m so glad I did.”

“You like my brother?” There is an odd note in Nora's voice, one that wasn’t present a second ago.

“I --” My first instinct is to speak with reserve… but I see no point, when my smile, if not my words, have already given me away. There is no point in being anything but honest. “He is so kind, and so clever. And witty! He doesn’t seem it at first, of course, because he’s shy… and I think that natural reserve works against him. He’s thoughtful, however, which is an excellent quality in a prince, and he considers each word before he says it… but he can carry a conversation, and listens so well. Oh, when he’s listening to you… you feel like the only person in the world. It’s incredible.” I duck my head to hide my smile, trying to keep my thoughts trained on practical observations, rather than the lightness in my chest. “So, yes. I do like him. I’d be hard-pressed not to like him. He’s a very likable person, isn’t he? Which will also work well for him when he’s king… not that popularity makes one a good king, but he’s intelligent too, and, and ---”

I cut myself off all at once, forcing my tongue to still. If I let myself, I will ramble on all night. I cannot talk about the comforting heat of Prince Phillip’s hands in mine, or the gleam in his eyes, or the way my heart pounded when he smiled… so I must talk about the important things. Things that matter. Things that will not disgust his poor sister to hear.

At once, I realize something odd: Nora is quiet. I haven’t seen her quiet before. She hasn’t been quiet all night. Now, there is not a sound behind me… as if she has slipped away when my back was turned, and vanished into the night.

I spin around, half-expecting to find her gone. Instead, I am met with the princess --- exactly as I left her. Nora remains perched on the edge of the fountain. Her eyes are wide, staring off into the night. Her pink lips are parted. Her chest gives one short shudder, then goes still.

Silence hangs suspended in the air, like an invisible curtain ready to darken a stage. It stretches out for an agonizing moment.

The spell breaks. Nora falls.

It happens so suddenly that there is no time to react. She slips backwards like a puppet whose strings have been cut; her legs remain cast over one side of the fountain, while her head slides back into the water. By the time I reach her, she is caught up in a terrible spasm. Her eyes, wide open, gape up at nothing; she gurgles water like a fish, head plunging beneath the surface then slipping out again with another quake. I seize hold of her, pulling her up and out, but the spasms don’t stop. They keep coming.  
Her mouth is open, teeth bared and clenched. She inhales air through short, strangled gasps. Her stiff legs occasionally twitch, while her rod-straight arms flail and grasp at nothing. She is still drowning on dry land.

I do not realize I am screaming until my own shouts rush back to my ears. “Help! Someone! We need help over here!”

Nora's soaking wet hair drenches my skirt, but I hold her steady, pillowing her head against my knees. It is the only thing I can do. The princess cannot be dying; I tell myself this over and over, as if that will make it more true. As if that will force Nora to go still, push the breath back into her lungs, and stop this horrible, horrible spasming. She cannot die tonight.

Footsteps and shouts reach me --- from, it seems, very far away. I tear my eyes away from Nora for a second; the next thing I know, she is being lifted out of my arms.

I am shoved back and unceremoniously hauled to my feet; the rough treatment does not shock me, because all attention is focused somewhere else. Instead of me cradling Nora, it is now her brother who holds her --- not the crown prince, but the second son, Prince Nicholas. The hair falling into his eyes does nothing to conceal his look of fear; nor does his tight, protective grip on his sister disguise the fact that he is terrified.

Nora's mask still sits on the fountain’s ledge, where she cast it away. There is no disguising the Princess of Telle in convulsions against the earth, a spectacle for scandal. Small crowds of onlookers have gathered, lured out by my screams; several guards have rushed with them.

Prince Nicholas’ eyes turn to the guards, and he barks out something that has the crowd quickly ushered away. I am among them. I hold no status here, no greater right to see or understand than these strangers.

The last thing I see is the prince cradling Nora in his arms as she convulses and whimpers.


	7. CECILIE: CHAPTER THREE

The moments after leaving Princess Nora are a whirlwind of subdued confusion; and an entire week passes by the same way.

It does not seem like it should be possible. The Princess of Telle seizing up in a very public arena sounds like a national headline. The radios ought to blare the news; in hours, the country should be alight with scandal. When morning dawns in the wake of Arza’s welcoming gala, however, every newspaper _is_ raving... about the splendor of the evening, the fine manners of Arza’s king, the inevitable marriage between the crown prince and _“the little princess of Arza, sweet and graceful as a fairy”._

No one mentions a word about Princess Nora.

I pour through the papers for hours but find no detail of our nighttime caper. Nora is not mentioned at all. Our misadventure hasn’t become public scandal, but hearing nothing about my friend is somehow worse.

I am attended to breakfast-in-bed by a ladies’ maid. When I ask how the Princess of Telle is this morning, she replies that she has no clue; only Nora’s own staff, and her family, have been into see her.

If I hope to glean any more information from this group, I am harshly disappointed. That afternoon, I meet with the whole royal family — with Princess Nora conspicuously absent. When I ask after her, the Queen’s gracious smile pulls tight at the seams, and the light in Prince Nicholas‘s eyes goes dim.

The princess is very busy with her studies. Unfortunately, she cannot greet me but extends her most sincere welcome.

Lies dripping with honey and soaked with diplomacy are still lies, and sting far worse than they soothe.

I try to catch the Crown Prince’s eye. Not a word, however, is passed between us. Phillip offers me a formal nod and a stilted smile devoid of warmth. Then he lowers his gaze, and will not meet mine for the rest of the afternoon. No one mentions Nora again.

This is all I am given… and all I am left with for an entire week.

My days are a parade of endless court appearances, introductions, and meetings. My nights are busy with dinners and diplomacy. In the hours between, I am left with nothing to do but wonder. There is no sign, not even a whisper, of the young princess. It is as if she is a long-forgotten ghost roaming the palace hallways; if I didn’t know better, I’d think she was never there at all.

No matter how many times those final moments by the fountain turn over in my head, they never make any more sense. It looked like… well, like the princess was dying. This cannot be. If she had died, the entire country would be in mourning. It would not be hushed up like some great, shameful secret. Hereby I can only assume Nora is alive, just hidden away in her rooms — desperately ill, if the silence surrounding her is any indication.

Ill with what? Up to the moment she collapsed in the fountain, Nora seemed perfectly healthy. She was the picture of vitality. I am only sure that the girl who climbed through my balcony could not be kept confined unless something were truly wrong with her… but what could it be? What could cause such terrible spasms, as if she were in the very grips of Death himself?

None of it makes sense… and I have no one to turn to for more pieces of the puzzle. I am left with too many questions and no answers.

Through all the formal events, as I pose and smile next to the Telle royal family, it is impossible to ignore the underlying tension which surrounds us. The Queen is perfectly civil — but there is always a terseness behind her smiles. I am not sure what I have done to earn her animosity — indeed, if that is what it is — but she makes me nervous. Prince Alfred never says two words to me unless forced. Prince Nicholas’ reputation preceded him, and he doesn’t let it down; he is warm and amiable, not missing an opportunity to ensure my comfort or make the formal atmosphere a little easier with his smile. Whenever we lock eyes, however, a weight settles on my shoulders. I cannot say for sure he realizes I was at the party with Nora, but he looks at me as if we share a secret.

As for the one person I really want to get to know — the one I’ve come all this way to marry — I see very little of him.

Phillip is constantly busy. When he is not making a public appearance, he is attending a conference or diplomatic meeting; when he’s not doing that, he is holed up in his office with paperwork. He makes time to join us on our family appearances because it is in his schedule, which he adheres to like law… but otherwise, we never get time alone. I don’t get the chance to speak to him. We exchange a pleasantries in passing, but conversation is stilted and dies just as fast.

I look at him and cannot believe this is the same man I danced with at the ball. That prince was nothing like this prince. The Phillip I am to marry is a complete stranger.

On the night before my brother and the rest of our delegation must leave for Arza, I barely sleep. His ship departs in the early-morning hours; I meet him on the docks at dawn, bleary-eyed, feeling very small in my heavy shawl.

Felix places a hand on my shoulder, and I grip it like a lifeline. My tongue itches to murmur a plea --- _“don’t leave me here, I don’t know what I’ll do without you, I can’t stand to be left all alone”_ \--- but the disappointment that would invoke in Felix’s eyes would be unbearable. Ever since I was a child, I have itched to impress my big brother. I cannot let him see my tears now.

Felix hugs me tight. I hug him back, squeezing as if I can never bear to let go; when I finally do, it feels as if a piece of my heart has torn out of my chest. My brother takes it with him across the sea. I stand on the docks and watch until the Arzian ship has vanished on the horizon.

Everyone I know has gone, and I am a child’s toy, dropped on the shore and left behind.

* * *

 

In lieu of companionship, I wander in my spare time. I’ve never been in the habit before… but now I find myself looking for any chance to go off on my own. Usually, I do not even have to sneak away. Sometimes I am left for hours on end, with nothing to do but wait for the next item on my schedule. Rather than sit alone in my rooms, practicing embroidery or reading, I slip out.

These stolen moments only flashes of freedom I have throughout the day. Free from prying foreign eyes, I can breathe again. My body feels like my own, each step controlled only by me. The oppressiveness of court dispels when I am able to escape it, and it is easy to appreciate the beauty that has been slipping right past my eyes.

And Telle _is_ beautiful. There can be no doubt of that.

In the days of my grandparents, Telle was one of the wealthiest kingdoms in the land. They were known for their prosperity; most of Telle’s fortune came from gem mining, so they were awash with riches from the moment an axe first struck earth.

In the years of King Arvid’s rule, and his father’s before him, much of that wealth disappeared. It was not their fault, not really. The southern nations were swept up in the War of the Blue Poppies; the conflict lasted twelve years, and stole fifteen thousand lives, as well as much of Telle’s fortune. A more finance-minded king could have handled the crisis, but King Arvid’s strengths lie in diplomacy, not economics. His own sons were too young to fight in the war, but they still bear the price on their heads. Telle will be suffering under the debts incurred for years to come.

The rest of the nation must feel this keenly. In the palace, one could never tell.

The family palace of Telle is Algion Castle, situated higher on the mountains which overlook the sea. Telle, in all its glory, stretches below; the castle lords above it all, like a gilded god overseeing the world he has created. The journey up in comfortable, and being in the palace certainly does not feel like you are at a high altitude… but when I look past my balcony, I see the rolling hillsides and kingdom stretching far below. It makes me dizzy. The ocean seems so much more reachable… as if I could stretch out my arm and grab it. I have taught myself never to look down, only forward… out into that endless, inaccessible ocean, which holds my heart somewhere in the deep.

The palace itself is rich with marble and gold. Jems line the floors in every foyer, every room, creating dazzling mosaics; a story unfolds beneath my every step. The paint lining the hallways smells of fresh pomegranates; the light fixtures in every room dance off the walls in a crystal waterfall. Fine art hangs in gilded frames, statues and busts of noble figures rest proudly in corners, and more than once I have been startled by an old suit of armor.

More than its luxury, the palace is _big._ It is so easy to get lost when walking alone. If I stopped paying attention for even a second, it could swallow me up. I must brace myself against disorientation through the winding hallways; even then, I sometimes start out in the west wing, to find myself in the south half an hour later. (Some of the kinder guards have helpfully steered me back in the right direction; I remember their names, and send them fruit baskets the next day.)

By the end of the week, I have still not explored the entire castle. One could live here for _years_ and never do so. Getting lost in an endless labyrinth of hallways can only be entertaining so many times before you are left feeling stupid. Restless and desperate, I am driven to something a bit more literal.

A great labyrinth rests at the heart of the gardens. This is know --- I looked down upon it from a window my first day here. According to the guards, the labyrinth is a vast, endless thing, avoided by anyone with common sense… which generally excludes the royal children.

Since that night, staying away from the labyrinth has seemed like the most practical thing to do… and I’ve had no reason to visit the gardens, anyways. I cannot explain what finally draws me down to them on this cloudy Sunday morning, when I have no engagements (aside from the ever-present one) and no other way to keep busy. Could it be all the questions swirling in my head, without a single answer? The need to escape prying eyes? The hope that somehow, returning to the scene of the crime could give me a clue what happened to my friend?

All my hopes are disappointed. I follow the white gravel path down to the gardens, and make my way to the fountain where I last saw the princess… but it is as if nothing ever happened here. No diamond-studded harlequin mask, no girl convulsing on the ground… I step through ghosts, but no substance. Whoever scrambled to cover up the incident left no evidence behind.

With my optimism shattered, I’m left with no anchor to ground me where I stand. My gaze roves through the gardens, taking in the rows of flower bushes, the path diverging in its own fountain of directions… and the labyrinth, so open and beguiling, calling out like a siren song.

Every instinct screams against it, but my feet move of their own accord. I find myself staring into the mouth of the labyrinth. Inside is darkness, swirling with something unfathomable, like phantom figures hiding in the shadows… but they do not frighten me. A breeze rustles past my face, combing its fingers through my short hair, and I close my eyes against it. When I open them, I have stepped inside the labyrinth. 

It swallows me up, leaving not a trace behind ---  as if I were never there at all.

* * *

 

Late afternoon shadows have fallen over the labyrinth by the time I begin to grow tired. For as long as you are excited to be wandering endlessly, a maze is a thrill; as soon as that grows tedious, however, you’re left praying for an end. Every time I turn a towering corner, my heart races with anticipation… but another corridor of foliage stretches before me. It is endless.

My feet ache by the second hour --- stumbling in the tall grass, I regret not wearing more practical shoes. By the third hour, my arms sting and pulse, raw with scratches from wild brambles. As the shadows stretch longer, I lower my head, swallowing past a parched throat. For the first time, the overcast afternoon holds a chill, steadily freezing me from the inside out. Tedium and exhaustion leave me praying for a way out, but half-suspecting it will never come.

When I finally emerge from the abyss, I nearly fall over myself. At once, there are no walls of foliage on either side of me; the maze ends far more abruptly than it began. High above my head, birds sing a jaunty little tune, as if welcoming me back to the world of the living. I pant for breath, inhaling fresh air, and tip my face back towards nonexistent sun. That’s when I spot the bridge.

It is an old rope-and-wood construction, flimsy from years of ill-use. It stretches across a narrow moat full of water, glimmer like liquid silver in the daylight. Beyond the stream, beyond the bridge, I spot a strange construction in a grove of trees. At first glance, I can only think it looks like a playset.

How very strange. Why is there a playset in the middle of the woods?

I step one foot onto the bridge, then the other, holding my breath. It does not break or even bow under my weight, remaining blissfully steady until I am off it once more. No longer does wild grass lick my shins, threatening to trap me. Now, spare patches of green spring up under my feet, but I follow a dirt path. Twigs crunch under my feet. Over my shoulder, a bumblebee hums. Wind rustles trees over my head, comforting as a lullaby.

As the playset rises before me, my lungs suddenly feel heavy. Awe freezes the breath in my chest, forcing my eyes wide and my steps slow. I have never seen anything quite like this --- a miniature palace, built of stone and mortar, towering high above my head.

It pales in comparison to the royal home of Telle --- but that castle does not have long slides that wind from impossible heights on either side of it’s foundation; it is not split apart, joined by a long row of monkey bars; it has no swing stretching out from a long turret, dangling over a perilous drop to the ground. The kingdom of Telle may be great, but it pales in comparison to this child’s paradise. As I step forward, a long red slide stretches from the center of the structure, unfurling at my feet like a carpet… or a giant tongue, eager to swallow me up.

A child-sized palace in the middle of the woods, and it seems to have gone undisturbed for years --- what curiosity have I uncovered? Who once stood where I am standing years ago, calling this tiny kingdom theirs?

I ascend a winding staircase, up and up into a tall tower. Inside, there is a little playroom, fit with cubbies in the wall, a sanctuary for old toys forgotten with the years. I nearly trip over a doll, her blonde hair matted and tangled with leaves. The air is fresh, but my head still pulses with a strange nostalgia that is not my own, a sensation I cannot name… as if I am intruding on a place lived in and cherished years ago, now all-but-forgotten.

As I emerge from the turret into fresh air --- a wide balcony leading towards the set of bars --- a curious prickling sensation emerges on the back of my neck. It is not quite a chill; I run my hand over it anyways, hoping to warm myself.

A crackle of sticks startles me; I reel around, half-expecting any manner of wild animal or stranger. Instead, I am met with a familiar face --- fine clothes, bright blue eyes, and a smile that radiates relief and victory all at once. Of all the people to find me out here, I did not expect Prince Nicholas.

He is out of breath and disheveled in a handsome, careless manner. This is all that gives away that he has been looking for me for quite a while.

“Princess!” The prince sweeps his hair back with one hand, dropping into an easy bow. “I hoped I’d find you out here! A gardener said he noticed you heading into the maze.”

My heart is pounding so hard I can taste it. Lowering my head does nothing to disguise my obvious discomfort, or make me seem any less guilty for being discovered where I have no good reason to be. “I’m sorry. I did not expect to be found, Your Highness.”

“Please. I must insist on _Nick.”_ The prince smiles in his easy, disarming way. “We know each other well enough by now, don’t we?”

We do not. I could easily tell you which kind of cream pastries Prince Nicholas prefers (lime and raspberry), his favorite horse in the royal stables (a dashing black-and-white cobb stallion called Bumblebee), the dances he is most fond of, the books he’s read recently, and where he hopes to visit on his next trip abroad. All of these topics have come up in casual conversation. If this constitutes _knowing_ somebody, then I know all about Nicholas, and he doesn’t know ten things about me.

However, we are not friends. We are hardly acquaintances. In the time that I have been in Telle, I do not think we have had one private conversation… until this moment.

I force a smile. It feels unnatural on my face, as if someone else has painted it there without my consent. “Very well, then. If you would like to call me Cecilie…”

“I’d like that very much, Cecilie.” He slips the name on like a pair of new gloves, and makes it seem natural. I do not mind the informality, but it throws us into uncharted water. I fumble for a paddle, anything to keep myself afloat, and come up empty handed.

Thankfully, Nick doesn’t need any help carrying a conversation. “I’m surprised you found this place. The labyrinth can swallow people up for hours. Either you’ve got a good sense of direction or you’re just lucky!”

“Maybe neither,” I suggest quietly. He laughs.

“Well, since you’re here, you may as well know what you’ve stumbled into.”

He strolls across the small glen, and smacks a hand down in the middle of the red slide. I stretch far over the parapet to peer at him. When he looks up, the grin on his face is proud and blinding. “This, my dear Cecilie, was my playset in bygone years! All of ours, really --- we princes, and the princess. It was built when Phillip was just learning to toddle, see… and the rest of us grew into it. We used to call it our kingdom.”

His eyes rove across the playset as he speaks. I follow, and it is easy to see the impressions left behind from years of carefree play. At the top of that tall tower, I suppose, Prince Phillip used to poke a well-groomed little head up to survey his domain… over the bars joining both halves of the castle together, nimble little Princess Nora must have scampered and swung…. in the tiny nook enclosed within the tower, like a secret room hidden from the world, Prince Alfred curled up with his books… and from the fond way he regards that old slide, Prince Nick certainly must have scrambled up and down with relentless energy, until the paint flaked off beneath his hands.

I find a smile upon my lips, and a curious fondness warming my voice when I reply, “I can imagine.” In fact, I can practically see it. Did the four little royals play together, or did they revolve in their own universes even then?

“Well. If our playset wins the Arzian seal of approval, we must have done something right.“

My font imaginings bleed into memory, and something melancholy tinges my grin. “My brother and I had ropes and swings high above the ground… an entire jungle-gym, like a maze in the sky. We were little acrobats.” How we flipped and soared, my brother and I… safe in the certainty of nets below to catch us. We never feared falling. We never feared anything at all… we had no reason to.

 _Real fear_ is the moment you fail to catch the ropes… and that net of security which has always existed drops out from under you, and you feel the awful swoop in your stomach as you fall… falling, falling, with the words _“the king and queen are dead”_ echoing in the air that rushes past

My silence is all Nick needs to realize my mind has wandered. I am pulled back to the present moment as the prince nimbly clambers up the slide, as if he has done it all his life. (My imagination wasn’t far off.) He pulls himself up with a grunt and a sigh, then settles beside me on the tower floor. I lower myself to join him, not sure what to make of the intrusion.

“If we are friends,” he declares, “you must make allowances for me.”

My eyebrows creep up. I am still not sure we are friends. “Is that so? What might those be?”

For the first time, Nick falters. The easy confidence in his eyes fades; his mouth opens and closes several times, but the words do not come easily. I wait, patiently tracing circles into the long fabric of my skirt, until he finds his bearings. “You’re not happy,” Nick says at last, voice soft. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but… well, it’s easy to tell.”

I chew over my words for a long moment before replying. “No. I am not happy... here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He sounds genuine. “Is there anything I can do?”

Can he hire a boat to take me away from here? Can he call off this engagement? Can he swim like a dolphin, with me on his back, across an entire an ocean back to my homeland?

Theoretically, I could do all of these things myself (except the last one, maybe). Chains of duty bind me, keeping me rooted to Telle’s shores. Nick can do nothing to help me. This issue reaches far above either of our heads.

“I wish you could,” I reply. “Thank you, though, for offering.”

“Anything for family,” he replies. I tense up. This doesn’t go unnoticed, but Nick is more merciful than I gave him credit for — he says not a word about it. “Tell me, Cecilie, have you ever visited a foreign country before?”

I shake my head. I have never gotten the chance. Arza is a wealthy and prosperous nation, but we rely on our allies for little. When my parents were alive, we had no cause to travel. Since taking the throne, Felix has visited several neighboring countries, but never taken me with him. This is the furthest I have ever been from my home before.

Nick looks sympathetic. His hands twitch in his lap, as if he’d like to do something more than he is — perhaps take my hand or rub my shoulder — but he recognizes my boundaries and respects them. It is a relief. If I were hugged, well, I just might start crying on the spot.

Yet there is something else he can do for me. Something that would be a great comfort, and weight off my shoulders as well. I cast a tentative glance towards him, and catch Nick’s eyes. Something in them --- something honest and open --- reassures me.

“Nick, will you tell me what happened to Princess Eleonora?”

Surprise resonates on his face. For a moment, he is struck speechless; then he cracks, slumping forward with a chuckle utterly unfit for a prince.

“I should have known,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his faintly-shadowed jaw. “You know, I guessed it  --- when I saw the silver butterfly. I’ve seen that exact mask in my sister’s closet before. Of course you’d have to borrow something, if you weren’t prepared for a masquerade…  was the dress hers too?”

I flush. “It was a little big. I hadn’t been fitted for a new wardrobe yet, so the princess was kind enough to give me… a lesson in Telleian fashion.”

“Never take fashion advice from Lea.” Nick’s tone is warm with disgust. When he turns his gaze on me, I am conscious of being appraised in a new light  --- like a corroded old spoon with a newly discovered gold sheen beneath its rust.

He thinks he has underestimated the demure little foreign princess. If only I could tell him he hasn’t!

“I’m sure it was all Lea’s idea,” he goes on. “It’s just the sort of thing she’d plan. Am I right?”

I nod. He sighs.

“I’m very sorry your night had to end like that. Now… now I understand why you’ve been frowning all week. You had me concerned, Cecilie. Some days it’s seemed like you want to swim back across the sea.”

Well, if it were an option…

“Please,” I say, meeting his eyes directly. “Tell me what happened.”

He hesitates for a long breath, fingers dragging through his already disheveled hair. Nick wears messiness well; he turns it into something charming, an accessory to a handsome face and clever eyes. He does not look debauched so much as debonair, careless rather than carefree. In this moment, however, he is anything but. His leg shakes, free hand twitching across his knee. A tightness lingers at the corners of his lips, lining his eyes. I watch him search for what to say, come up blank, then force himself to talk anyway.

“You deserve as much, but I can’t give it to you.” 

The regret in his words does nothing to soften their disappointment, like a punch straight to my ribs. I slump forward. Guilt shines in Nick’s eyes as he lowers them, turning his face from me. “You must believe, Princess, this is nothing personal. We are not hiding anything from  _ you _ .”

“You are  _ hiding _ in general,” I reply evenly. “From what?”

Nick chuckles. It is low and crackly, like dead leaves crunching under heeled boots. Such a noise sounds discordant coming from his fine mouth.

“The world, my dear. Only the world. We are royalty, you know… we hold the favor of the gods in our hands. Gods do not  _ curse _ the ones they love.”

This word rings in my ears, like the echo of a shattered glass in the suspended silence that follows its demise. What kind of curse holds the royal family of Telle in its sway?

I think of Lea on the ground, writhing and shaking, with her eyes rolled back in her head; a shudder runs through me. 

“The people will not respect a ruler who has lost favor with the gods… who’s proved to be no less human than the rest of them. And if a royal family cannot command the respect of the people, they lose their security, their country… and, inevitably, their lives.” Nick has shown no predilection towards grim prophecy; he recites this in a frank monotone, as if he has been told the same thing every day since he was a very small child. When he looks at me again, apology hangs heavy in his eyes, darkening them, while at the same time making any further probing impossible. I cannot push, because he will not budge. 

My head lowers. I almost feel chastened for asking, as if I’ve committed an egregious sin. Then, a hand settles on my shoulder, pulling my gaze back to Nick once more.

“Be careful, Cecilie,” he says softly. There is something intent in his face, determined and earnest. “Keep your eyes open, always… because there are things which go unseen here, more than you realize.  _ That’s _ what they won’t tell you. But if you are marrying into this family, you deserve to know. We  _ are _ cursed. There can be no sheltering you from it… and no hiding. Be very, very careful.”

I tilt my chin down. It is hard to process this as the warning it is, so I rewrite the words in my head, hearing something lighter… a secret shared between two people. Fear lingers beneath secrets too, but it ripples rather than roils, like a serpent beneath the smooth surface of a puddle. I lock his words deep inside my chest, holding on to them to pull out and examine later.

“She is alright, though?” I ask after a long moment of silence. “That hasn’t been a lie?”

“She is.” There is nothing hesitant in Nick’s voice, nothing to suggest dishonesty. “After an episode, she is very tired. She needs to recover — to heal.”

This is all I needed to hear. I find it possible to breathe again. That weight I so desperately needed lifted from my shoulders has gone, and in its place is an hollow relief. His ominous words still drape over me like a shroud, but Nick has at least given me this.

“Thank you for being honest with me. You’re the first person, the only one who’s taken the time to…” I cut myself off, checking my impulsive tongue. “Who’s cared enough.”

Nick smiles, and at last, it is genuine again. “I’m happy to care about you, Cecilie. More people do than it may seem.”

There is truth in his words, but I have not seen it’s evidence. “I only wish they could be… a little less attentive.” Or a little  _ more _ . Phillip’s aloof face flashes through my mind, and I swallow back regret. 

When I look up at Nick again, he wears sympathy like the most natural expression upon his face. For a moment, that golden playboy is no more than a memory, nor the haunted-eyed secret-keeper. This, I suspect, must be the  _ real _ Prince Nicholas.

“Keep trying, Cecilie. There’s no honor in giving up before the fight.”

“There is even less honor in giving up halfway through.”

“Then don’t give up.” He rests a hand on my shoulder, and the weight doesn’t feel like an intrusion. “Perhaps you’ll find yourself happy here… sooner than you think.” He quirks an eyebrow. “And if it’s any consolation, you have a listening ear in me. Should you need to pour your heart out — not that I think your heart isn’t more than capable of bearing it’s weight — I offer myself to you.” He quirks his lips. “Think of me as something like… an ally.” 

I look up at him, hardly daring to believe my ears. Meeting his honest gaze, a smile comes to my lips of its own accord, and I find myself echoing an older offer.

“A friend?”

Nick smiles. It is a victory on both sides… one I’m more than willing to accept. “Perhaps one day,” he says, “even a brother.”


	8. NORA: CHAPTER SIX

Each absentminded swing of my legs sends my heels colliding with the floor. A droning symphony fills the room: the monotonous humming of Monsieur Rinaud, the sound of pencil scratching on paper, every few seconds interrupted by a resounding clack. Wooden heels against marble floor — such a noise could shatter the world. It ought to be satisfying, but it’s anything but; my heart still beats to the tick of the clock on the wall, and each second drags on longer than the last.  
  
If I have to spend any more time in this room — another moment, another instant with no one but my tutor and my own thoughts for company — I’ll snap. I’ll fling my chair across the room. I’ll tear my hair out and leap from the window, plummeting down to the garden these stories below.   
  
“We keep those locked for a _reason,_ Princess.”   
  
My eyes tear from the sprawling gardens— where I’ve apparently been staring with too much focus — back to my tutor. Monsieur Rinaud is watching me, unimpressed.   
  
“You can’t read my thoughts,” I fire back. “Stop acting like it.”   
  
“I can read you easily enough.” He tucks his pencil behind his ear, and pushes away from his desk to stare at me. “You haven’t written a scratch of arithmetic in half an hour, you’re fidgeting like a hen in a kennel, and if you stare out the window a second longer, you may just up and fly away.”   
  
“Is that a promise?”   
  
“If only.” He chuckles, stroking his thin mustache. “If only.”   
  
The funny thing about Monsieur Rinaud is that he’d actually be quite handsome, if he were not sarcastic enough to curdle milk. He hides his bite behind a pearly smile, face tanned and handsome, dark hair coiffed like a proper Telle gentleman — though he is a foreigner to our land, and his slight accent gives him away. If people do not notice his looks first, they see his charm. The real wickedness of his personality only becomes apparent _later_ , completely at his own leisure.

He was a striking choice for a science and maths tutor. I’ll admit, for that first week I had an awful crush on him, and learned absolutely nothing he tried to teach. Monsieur caught on early; since then, he’s made a point of disabusing me of every notion I might have that he is Prince Charming. If anything, he is a very sleek, very irritated garden snake... and I enjoy poking him with sticks to see if he’ll snap.  
  
“If you cared to toss me out, I’d thank you. The queen wouldn’t mind.”   
  
“Likely.” Monsieur can poke right back. “And a broken back would be easier on you than your _current_ affliction? Please. You’d combust after being bedridden two days.”   
  
“You forget, I have experience.” My lips purse. If everyone insists on fussing over me anyways — and they _always_ do after a spasm — why not give them a good reason?   
  
“Why _not_ give them a good reason?”   
  
I look up sharply. Monsieur smirks like the cat who’s caught the cream.   
  
“If you want to injure yourself something dreadful, be my guest. But —“ He holds up a finger before a sound can leave my open mouth. “You’ve still got a French lesson to go, and literature after that. Monsieur Dupree will be here any minute... and I’m not going to tell the queen you’re too tired to continue lessons. We both know you’re not.”   
  
“Too bored,” I retort. Monsieur hums as if he couldn’t care less, and my brows tug together. “You know, I could tell the Queen how nasty you’re being today. She’d have you dismissed on the spot.”   
  
There’s no real threat in my voice, only sourness — and no concern at all in Monsieur’s answering smile.

“You could,” he replies, “but who else could you possibly tolerate?”  
  
See, this is the problem when your social sphere is so limited that your tutor is one of your closest friends — getting rid of him is too much trouble.

Instead, I just stick my tongue out at him. Nasty, and very mature. Monsieur crows out a laugh.

“And that, sweet Princess, means I am done. Farewell…” He rises from his seat, brushing down his immaculate waistcoat, and makes to leave. My wide eyes follow his movements, a lump in my throat growing without my consent. Suddenly, the thought of being left — left _alone_ , with no company but myself — is the worst thing in the world.

“Wait!” I exclaim, sitting forward. Monsieur goes still.

My gaze locks with his; confusion softens into something like understanding, making his brown eyes lighter and all remnants of a smirk fade from his lips. He looks sympathetic, and this is worse than anything else. Poor Princess Lea, locked alone in her tower all day long… just because she fell down and hit her head.

I don’t want anyone’s pity. If I could take it all in, and spit it back at the world like venom, I would. Instead, I only straighten my spine, gathering my composure as I stare into his face.

I will not accept his pity, but I don’t need to. Monsieur Rinaud is very skilled at recognizing everything I don’t say.

“Tell you what,” he says, slamming his pen back on the desk. There’s a light in his face, like an inspiration and challenge all at once. “I’ll go ask Her Majesty for… one more hour of arithmetic today. I think we’re on a roll.”

I tilt my head, not so quick to understand his meaning. He casts me a small, conspiratorial smile.

“One hour for you to go where you want, do as you wish. How’s that sound?”

I blink at him, not daring to believe it. “Alone?”

Monsieur smiles. “ _Completely._ ”

The grin that spreads across my face is bright enough to outshine the sun — and for a moment, I don’t even resent the sympathy that comes with the offer.

* * *

As soon as I am free, the world opens up to me once more. I’d forgotten what it feels like to run — but sprinting through the palace hallways without caution or restraint, kicking off my shoes in my wake, does everything to remind me. The trail will undoubtedly be discovered by some baffled servants later, but as long as I don’t run into Mamma, no maids or footmen will stop me. I slide along carpets, dance past windows, and don’t stop for breath until my heart feels ready to burst out of my chest.

I am not allowed to get excited. This, apparently, is likely to bring on another fit. If Mamma has it her way, I would sit in my chambers every hour of my life, taking private lessons there, Emile in between she dresses and brushes my hair like a doll. No excitement, sure — no danger — but it certainly isn’t _living_.

There is nothing better than the feeling of elation that comes with pulling off a successful escape. Your heart racing, pulse pounding, head reeling off its axis yet somehow staying grounded… adrenaline pumping through racing veins until it feels like you can fly… that overwhelming feeling of victory.

There’s a lot to love about living, but nothing can compare to _recklessness_. There’s no freedom like it in the world.

If I want any chance of privacy, there’s only one place to go — one place I’m guaranteed not to be found. What prisoner, in the course of her escape, would run straight to a library?

The Crown Prince’s library, of all places — with its towering, dusty shelves, mothbitten furniture, creaky floors and drafty balconies. No one ventures into Phillip’s library if they can help it, not even Phillip himself. It’s situated far off in the East Wing for a reason. The books the go forgotten, the windows undusted, the fireplaces unlit. It is the perfect place to get lost and not be found.

I tear through the East Wing in record time… and there is no soul around to watch me screech to a halt in front of the heavy oak double doors, slip inside, and shut them tight behind me.

Shadows immediately swallow me up. A curtain of dust hangs over the air, heavy and musty, clinging to each breath I draw in. The library is cool where other rooms in the palace are warm; the curtains are drawn, where in the parlors they stand wide open; bookshelves tower high above my head, most of their occupants never having known the turn of a page. It feels like stepping into a closet which remains locked most of the year, put out of sight and out of mind.

(My brother cannot be blamed for the neglect to his library — these books are not _his_ , but have belonged to every Crown Prince of Telle going back six generations. He has little time to sit down and read a book nowadays.)

I take a few steps into the darkness. Floorboards creak beneath my feet; my shoes are left abandoned without care by the door. Now I can feel a layer of dust underneath my bare toes, a carpet before I have even reached the ornate Bionese rug. I must leave footsteps in my wake, but looking down I can see nothing. I hear nothing. I feel nothing. In this darkness, I have become obsolete.

Finally, I am alone.

* * *

There is an old record player in the corner of the room, nearly buried behind shelves of towering encyclopedias. It’s collection leaves something to be desired, but I’m glad to work with nothing. The first song which comes on it a jaunty tune from some bygone big band.

The best thing about dancing alone is that you never make a fool of yourself. This is a good thing — because when I dance, making a fool of myself comes with the territory.

My arms flail at my side in careless, enthusiastic half-circles. I shimmy and shake across the library floor, slide my heels to the left, and catch myself against a bookshelf. One twist, and I whirl away, the music carrying me off with no heed for where I may end up.  I tap my heels across the floor, whirl into a row of curtains, and throw them open to cast the room in far greater light.

With each curtain I heave aside, the neglect of the room becomes more visible. There is no joy in motheaten leather chairs or cobwebs in high corners, in windows which haven’t been dusted in so long that they’ve formed their own mosaics. Neglect spreads through this room like a forgotten story; it is not the only room in our vast palace which goes all but ignored for lack of care for it, but it is the only one that has been entered for a very long time.

If I can breathe a little life back into the place, I must be doing my job right.

I start with the furniture. Shifting it around into more comfortably positions is only the beginning; dusting off leather, clearing messy tables, and testing out lamps that haven’t been illuminated in years leaves the room looking much more hospitable. The curtains are ancient, filled with so much dust that even I can’t fan out all of it. The banisters leading up to the landing are wobbly, but steady enough to remain upright. The landing itself feels like it could give way at any moment, but since it doesn’t, I decide it can’t be too unsafe.

There’s a difference between cleaning a room and messing it up further  — a thin line that I’ve probably scrambled, shattered, and vaulted over. To be fair, cleaning is hard. Dancing around, dusting off bookshelves and throwing yellowed old papers off of desks, is much more fun. It must be productive in its own way… even if I can’t say what that way _is_.

Papers fly. Rugs crumple. Curtains swirl. Books fall.

It does not occur to me for a second that I am being too loud — giving my location away, in an area of the palace only frequented by servants, and the occasional adventurous guard — until the heavy oak door opens with an awful dragging noise. At once, my fun screeches to a halt. I freeze, suspended in the middle of the balcony, wide eyes gaping down below.

It takes the intruder a second to spot me. At first, she seems awed by the room itself, in all its dubious glory; but when dark eyes fix on me, her lips part in a soundless gasp.

“Your Highness,” Princess Cecilie says, and drops into an immediate curtesy. The hem of her green dress sweeps the ground, dust collecting on the lace. She does not notice. Immediately, her attention is fixed on me again, as if I’ll vanish if she looks away for more than a second.

“ _Nora_ ,” is all she says, but relief ripples through the syllables.

“Hello, Princess.” My moment of apprehension has passed, leaving pleasure in its wake. Had I been found by anyone else — a servant, a guard, Mamma — I’d have certainly been in trouble. Cecilie, however, could not be a more welcome face.

“It’s — very good to see you again — after that night, I was so _worried_ —“ She stumbles and trips over her own words, cutting off. After a moment of breathless silence, she manages her true question. “Are you alright?”

If she’s asking, I owe her a true answer. With a dramatic flourish, I pose, arms bent and raised over my head. There can be no doubt, in my proud bearing or wild composure, that I’m the picture of health.

Satisfied and relieved, Cecilie allows her gaze to wander around the room once more. She takes in everything in an instant, coming up unimpressed. In fact, she looks a little horrified.

“This room,” says Cecilie, in her pretty clipped accent, “is a relic.”

“Absolutely.” I spread my arms wide. “Isn’t it great? This is the Crown Prince’s royal library.”

Cecilie’s nose turns up. I can see her judging the dusty footprints on the floor, the sheen of disuse lining the bookshelves, and the absent Philip in consequence. My poor brother isn’t even here to acquit himself… but he wouldn’t have much to say.

“I thought better of the Crown Prince,” is all she says.

In that moment, I truly feel bad for the princess. Awful enough to be forced into marriage with a man she hardly knows — but imagine being deceived into thinking my big brother is actually _impressive_!

If anything, it’s this unprecedented sympathy which coerces me to hold my arms out to her. We certainly cannot reach each other, me towering above the room while she stands below… but as Cecilie stares up at me, a question registers in her eyes.

“You’ll help me, won’t you?” I ask eagerly. “I’m busy cleaning. Very, very busy.”

She casts a doubtful look around the room at my hard work — papers scattered everywhere, old books cast from distant heights to the floor below. She may as well be standing in the carnage after a hurricane. It’s a magnificent mess.

Carefully, Cecilie steps over two fallen books, then bends to pick one off the ground. She holds it like a precious object, frowning down at the ancient cover. Her fingers absently stroke the worn spine, as if she hopes her touch can breathe life back into it.

When she looks up at me again, something like a smile has lightened her face. “I would be glad to help,” she replies, lifting the volume in her hands up to me like an offering. “To begin… we’d better get to work on these shelves!”

With a wicked grin, I reach behind me, and send another handful of books raining to the ground.

Cecilie throws her hands up, basking in the eye of the storm.

* * *

We are not discovered until hours later  --- once books have been stacked throughout the room, reorganized under Cecilie’s careful guidance; the rugs have been straightened; the desks have been dusted to a shine; and it has become common knowledge throughout the palace that both princesses are missing.

My attention to the music keeps a bouncy melody flowing throughout the room, spurring our work on. Cecilie’s focus is otherwise occupied... torn in fifteen directions at once.

“This book  --- is this a Clemenceau original? And this one, we had Balint’s entire collection in the Arzian national library, he describes settings with such flourish…  Nnamani! Nnamani, Nnamani, she’s Arza’s most famous poet, and you’ve got so many of her books ---”

She darts across the room with a stack of Nnamani balanced in her hand, footsteps light and hurried as a deer. Aglow with enthusiasm, Cecilie is like an excited child. Her former reserve has melted away; in its place is something vibrant, beaming from her wide eyes and the bright crescent of her smile.

Our music hits a lull. My hand reaches to switch the record, Cecilie’s delighted babble still running in the background…  but another sound, far more ominous than welcoming, freezes me.

I have been hunted by the palace guards often enough to recognize their peculiar gait — like the trotting of horses, steel-soled boots lifting high over the ground before coming down in a resounding clip-clomp, clip-clomp. It’s impossible to miss the guards of Telle when they’re coming at you, and it sounds like an entire regiment is heading down the hallway.

Cecilie catches the sound a second after I do. Her words cut off, horror choking her. She cannot even gasp. Wide eyes swivel towards me, desperate for some kind of deliverance — but I can offer none.

We can’t _turn invisible,_ and there is no other way out of the room besides the door. No other way, except...

“Come on!” I exclaim, rushing towards one the wide windows lining the room.

I do not realize, until I have already forced the heavy pane open and a spring breeze is whipping my face, that Cecilie has not followed. She stares from across the room in mute, uncomprehending surprise, laced with no small amount of terror.

I look down, at the spiraling trellis below, which stretches into the gardens. It will not be a fun climb, but two stories above the ground is hardly dizzying. We can make it, as long as neither of us fall.

“It’s okay,” I call over my shoulder. As the footsteps grow nearer, Cecilie dashes across the room, hesitation freezing her just an arm’s-length from me.

“Where are we going?”

“The question isn’t where we’re going,” I reply, a wicked relish in my voice, “but where we’ll end up.”

Resolution creeps into Cecilie’s wide eyes. She takes a deep breath and nods. The grin that stretches across my face is blinding.

When I pull myself out the window, Cecilie follows without a second of hesitation.


	9. A STRANGER’S INTERLUDE

LNick tries to ask about Léa debuting, is promptly shut down. Phillip is serious, Nick is heartfelt, Al is pouty. 

 

The atmosphere in the room is thick enough to cut with a knife. Judging from the expressions on the three princes’ faces, such a punishment would be merciful.

The last time all three were called to a formal meeting in their mother’s presence, it was only to inform them that their grandmother, the Dowager Queen, has died; the time before that, none of them stood as tall as their mother’s shoulder. Queen Diana is known for many things, but advocating for family togetherness is not one of them. These occasions are rare, and all the more frightening for their scarcity. 

Sitting around the Queen’s wide oak table, none of the princes know what to expect.

Prince Alfred sits at the far end of the table, his spine ramrod straight, head bowed to observe the room in sharp, glowering focus. Prince Nicholas bounces his leg beneath the table, fingers drumming against the wooden top just lightly enough to avoid making any sound. Of them all, Crown Prince Phillip is most at ease, watching his mother with the attentive gaze of someone used to these meetings; he has served as his mother’s right hand since he learned to walk. The Crown Prince looks far more at ease in a boardroom meeting than he ever could in a ballroom.

The Queen stands at the head of the table. Every inch of her petite stature towers above them all; the full force of her severity is focused on her sons. Its effect is paralyzing.

“All I would like,” the queen enunciates painfully, “is for someone to explain how she ended up in the duck pond.”

Silence lords over the three princes for a moment, before Prince Nicholas speaks up. He is tentative, but without shame. “Well, Mamma… it appears she wanted to take a quack at swimming.”

For a long moment, the Queen does not make a sound, does not twitch even to inhale a breath. Then she steps around the edge of the table, comes up between her two youngest sons, and slams her hand down on the table between them. The impact echoes throughout the room.

“She is our only princess,” she declares. “The only sister you have. Her security must be valued as highly as any previous jewel in the kingdom. Your duty is to protect her, and this is one you cannot shirk.” Her steely gaze turns on her middle son. “Especially when some have so few other duties to attend to.”

Prince Nicholas shrinks under this glare, like a flea recoiling from an open flame. At the Queen’s other side, Crown Prince Phillip’s face remains impassive. Prince Alfred’s lips curl back, not in sympathy, but disdain.

“She’s not a child,” he points out frankly, “and we are not her keepers. Why should it be our job to keep Nora from running off and causing trouble? We’ve got our own lives to lead.”

Apparently, the princess does not. The irony of this statement is missed by all parties. 

“Do you think it is up to the palace guard to play babysitter?” demands the Queen, turning to her youngest son. “Yes, Princess Eleonora should not need a babysitter — but until she chooses to act like an adult, she cannot be treated like one. You know her, you see her, you have grown up with her. You are her brothers.”

“No force on earth can stop Nora when she sets her mind to something,” protests Prince Nicholas, in a much quieter voice.

Prince Alfred clears his throat. “One can.”

For a moment, this statement hangs in the air, like a death rattle at a funeral. No one moves; Prince Nicholas frowns at his offending brother, but the rest are silent.

Finally, the Crown Prince clears his throat and leans forward, hands folding atop the table. “Ever since she was born, Nora has been under constant guard for her own protection. It is simply not safe for her to be alone. How many times has she been told this?”

“Far too many,” the Queen replies. “She refuses to listen.”

“Then that is Nora’s own mistake. She did not learn from the Arzian welcoming party, and she will not learn the next time something goes wrong. It seems to me, Mama, that save keeping her under lock and key, there is little we can do for her.”

“We could assign another personal guard,” suggests Prince Alfred, without any enthusiasm.

Prince Nicholas scoffs. “Like Lieutenant Hamish, who she bribed with peach schnapps? Or Lieutenant Edgar, who she drove away with those rubber spiders?”

“I thought she drugged him.”

“That was Lieutenant Gregory.”

The Crown Prince rests his face in his hands. “Mother. You see what I’m saying.”

The Princess is a master at getting her own way, this cannot be denied. Looking around, it is easy to see why; her own family holds secluded meetings to plot how to keep her under lock and key. Meanwhile, Princess Nora, though a combination of ingenuity, cunning, and amiability, has figured out how to defy them all. If she is placed in a locked room, as the Princess has demonstrated, she will simply go out a window; but she also makes a point of knowing all the staff by name, from the palace guards to the lowest serving maid.

Princess Nora was the only one who noticed a new face in the ranks of palace staff; when her dinner plates were taken from her room last night, she questioned me.

“I am Caroline, Your Highness,” I replied, not daring to meet the princess’s eye — for any regular serving maid would be struck with awe by her address, almost too overwhelmed to speak. 

The princess smiled at me, that unguarded, unaffected smile which made her look as much like a servant herself than the revered Telleian princess, and replied, “It's a pleasure to meet you, Caroline. I hope your time in the palace is pleasant.” As if I were had slipped into the skin of a visiting countess, instead of an unassuming maid!

Princess Nora has an unaffected charm which makes her very dangerous, because she is not afraid to use it. No personal guard would stand a chance.

After a long moment, the Queen sighs. Her shoulder slump; her reassessment of the situation has come up with no more obvious solutions. 

“But why is she acting out now?” she demands, addressing her eldest son, rather than anyone else in the room. “Three months ago, she was content. Now she’s like a wild horse. Is it because of the Arzian arrival? That little princess is a bad influence. The fact that she was with Nora in the gardens —“

Prince Nick sits up straight. His eyes have suddenly gone sharp and focused, as if he has locked on a piece of gold across the room and is about to spring from his chair to seize it.

“Mama,” he says at once. “Princess Cecilie is not the problem. She is the solution.”

All eyes are suddenly on the middle Prince, and he commands the attention well. “Our two princesses are already forming a friendship. If Nora cannot be left alone, and we cannot constantly monitor her, why not leave the task to Cecilie? They enjoy each others’ company, and otherwise Princess Cecilie is left with precious little to do. If Nora is allowed freer reign, in Cecilie’s company… she will be safe, our guest will be entertained, and our problem solved.” He slaps a hand down on the table. “It’s obvious.”

From the look on Queen Diana’s face, she is not so taken with the idea. (If it came from the lips of the Crown Prince, however, she would praise it.) “You suggest explaining our situation to the Princess of Arza? Absolutely not. It cannot be allowed.”

“Not… the whole situation,” the Crown Prince suddenly chimes in, surprising the entire room. “Some. Only what she needs to know… nothing more. The Princess is trustworthy, Mamma, and levelheaded. She could be a great help to us.”

“And who,” asks Queen Diana, “will explain this to her?”

“I will,” Prince Phillip replies. “Leave it to me.”

Coming from Prince Nicholas alone, the idea would certainly have been rejected; but now, with the support of the heir himself, it can only move forward. The solution is settled. Princess Cecilie will be charged with monitoring the princess of Telle.

“Very well,” says Queen Diana, as her son’s rise from their seats. If all was left there, the meeting could end in peace… but this is asking far too much of Prince Nicholas.

“It is only… Mamma, there is a reason for Nora to be restless. Her eighteenth birthday is approaching, and her debut — or, what ought to be her debut, that is —“ He stumbles over his own words, yet his previous success has emboldened him to foolhardiness. “If she were allowed to debut, I think Nora would be far more content. If she were formally introduced to the kingdom… treated like any other princess.”

For a long, terrible moment, the room is silent. The other princes, half-risen from their chairs, do not flinch. Prince Nicholas regards his mother with an open expression, slowly melting from earnestness to a guarded dread.

Queen Diana steps away from the table, away from her sons, and raises her head. “There will be no talk,” she declares, “of any debut. Your sister is not a normal princess… and if you forget that, you have betrayed your most sacred duty to this country.”

Without another glance at her sons, she turns and strides towards the door. I scramble to open it for her, barely managing to be fast enough. The Queen’s heavy skirts brush by me on her way out, and all the ice in the room goes with her.

Left in its place is an empty sort of calm, like the aftermath of a battle, when carnage litters the ground and victory has been claimed, but no one is quite sure what to do next.

The three princes glance at each other. After a long moment, Prince Alfred scoffs. “Well done, Nick.”

“What did you think you would accomplish?” inquires the Crown Prince, less scornful but far more severe. “Mama has made her position clear. Nora cannot be allowed to debut. Her own health will not allow it.”

“She’s healthy as a horse,” retorts Prince Nicholas.

“Until she isn’t. That day always comes, and we cannot risk our reputation in the eyes of the kingdom for Nora’s one night of being any other princess. It cannot be allowed.” Prince Phillip rests a hand on his brother’s shoulder, solemn eyes meeting defensive ones. After a long moment without a reply, he sighs and pulls away from Prince Nicholas. “Excuse me, then.”

The crown prince breezes past me without even a glance; men as high as him never look down to notice the people below, never have any need to. Once you have reached the summit of human ego, you do not thank the rocks that carried you there, or the wind which lifted you up. Crown Prince Phillip would be surprised to find that servants live and breathe, just as he does.

The second-eldest of the princes has familiarized himself far more with the bodies of maids. I lower my head as he passes. Instead, Prince Nicholas pauses in front of me; my eyes remained trained to the ground, even as his hand lands upon my shoulder. The weight holds me prisoner. If I tried to move away, my feet would not be able to leave the ground. My fingers itch for the pocket-blade tucked in my uniform pocket.

“You,” he says, voice pitched low for my ears alone. “You have eyes like a forest in summer… when sunlight filters through the leaves, painting everything green. Green and… gold.” 

His finger caresses my temple, brushing back a wispy strand of my hair. I hold my breath, not looking up. At once, Prince Nicholas draws back, his brows furrowing as if he’s encountered an incomprehensible puzzle, and doesn’t know what to make of it.

There is a world of difference between twirling hand-in-hand with a gentleman in a ballroom, and wincing under his attentions in a maid’s uniform. In the first case, both parties have autonomy; in the second, power rests squarely on one side, and the other has no right to say no. Although I have flirted and coaxed my way through to men’s secrets before, I have always held power in my own hands. Not having it leaves me feeling uniquely vulnerable, a child in an unfamiliar home.

Prince Nicholas can see it. For all he is blind to the sufferings of the smaller people, he sees discomfort in the one in front of him. “Apologies,” he says, drawing back his hand immediately. “I only meant to compliment, not offend.”

“You’ve got a unique talent for it,” Prince Alfred retorts, brushing past his elder brother. Disgust is plain on his face, in the split-second before he leaves the room.

Prince Nicholas is left alone. This ought to put me in an even more vulnerable position; but he takes a step back, and I may breathe again. Fear shrinks down to nothing, as long as there is distance between us.

“You looked familiar, is all.” He runs a hand through his hair, sheepish in a way that might strike any silly girl as charming. “Your face is striking.”

My eyes flicker up to him at last, betraying nothing. “Thank you, your highness,” I reply… and when his gaze implores more, “I have been told that before.”

“Because no one can ignore it.” He smiles; I see a flicker of something in his eyes, determination I know too well — an eager to push limits, to fumble carefully in the dark until you seize upon something worthwhile. He is testing my skittishness, hoping to end up in my bed after all. Tension still pulls at the corners of his eyes, and his smile lacks its usual carelessness. This is all a precise act… but it is directed towards the wrong maid.

“You’re very kind, Highness,” I say, lowering my head again. Steel walls close between up, one after the other, like a prison locking itself up. When I square my shoulders, I feel power rest upon them again, like a protective cloak over exposed skin.

The prince understands — and to his credit, doesn’t insist (though he very well could). He takes a larger step back and bows, every inch the gentleman.

“Good evening, then.”

“Good evening, Your Highness.” My voice is soft enough that I cannot be sure he hears it; but inside, I am seething. How many maids does Prince Nicholas make a habit of seducing, just to ease his own strained nerves? How many girls were not able to refuse? It makes me sick. A scowl pulls itself across my lips, still present as I step from the room.

At the end of the hallway, the third-born prince lounges casually. When he spots me, Alfred stands up straighter, hands folding behind his back.

“Careful. Your face will get stuck like that.”

“There are worse things,” I reply, short and clipped. We fall into step beside each other, neither looking off to the side. Our eyes remain trained straight ahead, down the darkened hall.

Prince Alfred has little interest in the superficial affairs of his brothers. He will not ask, because he does not really care. This is nothing but a relief.

Only after I have led him through the servant’s hall, down the winding staircase, and out onto the street past the workers’ entrance, does he shatter the silence between us. Pulling his hat low and the collar of his coat high, his dark eyes find mine in the evening light.

“The plans are still the same?”

“Nothing has changed,” is my reply. It pleases him; he nods, straightening his shoulders, and starts off into the night.

I follow without a word, without a sound. The thirdborn prince and I walk side-by-side into the night.


End file.
